Snapshots of Time
by darkbloodylegs
Summary: Behind the scenes on Death Note- Near gets a bath, Matt gets a fox, and Gevanni gets rejected, oh my! Gentle Matt/Mello.
1. L, Matt, Near, Mello, and Halle

The knock sounded throughout the nearly empty room, drawing all eyes towards the heavy wooden door. It was cold and nearly everybody was in bed sleeping, but not L. Large, dark eyes glanced up from the novel he was reading from where he crouched on the sofa, a tan blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

The knock sounded again, more incessantly now, causing the two small bundles nearby to shift. The younger of the two opened a sorrowful green eye and looked at L.

"Ssh. Go to sleep, Matt," L consoled automatically. It had been hell getting the one-year-old to sleep; he had been fussing, very agitatedly, for almost an hour before he had slept, crying because of an ear infection. Matt sighed, clutching his ear and, obeying his friend, nestled once again beside his warm, sleeping, blonde companion.

Roger shuffled as quickly as he could move in his slippers, tucking a dressing gown securely over his flannel pajamas. L felt, rather than saw, the giant door open, heard the creak, felt the rush of chilly air. Almost automatically, he removed his blanket and settled it over the children on the bed, padding, barefoot across the icy floor to Roger's side.

A woman stood on stoop in front of Wammy's house, shivering. She had a thick hoodie over her thin frame, but that didn't conceal the bruises. A gust of wind blew her hood down, revealing fair hair, a round face. L was only twelve years old and already he stood taller than her—though, if what he gathered from her fearful face, she was not much older than he was.

In her arms was a bundle of blankets.

"Sir…" she spoke to Roger, not even looking at L. "Sir, this is my baby. Please… I don't know what else to do…" her eyes were tearless, but an emotion L could not read resided within them as she looked into the baby's face. Roger made no move to accept the child.

"Madam," Roger spoke rather formally, "I'm afraid we've never taken in a child that young. This is a school for the gifted, and we have no way of telling…"

The woman didn't even wait for Roger to finish speaking, instead turning to look at L. "_You'll _take care of him, won't you?" she asked. There was something unsettling about her, perhaps the way her dark, intelligent eyes contrasted so sharply from her pale skin and almost white hair. Or perhaps it was the fist-shaped bruise that graced her cheek. Without speaking, L held out his arms. Roger made a little noise in his throat, of protest, but L sent him a look. Roger knew better than to openly defy L; L was, after all, the _most _gifted student in a school _of _gifted students. L had privileges other students didn't.

A warm weight, heavier than it looked, pressed into his arms. L looked at the child; it resembled bread dough, or something equally shapeless and pale. It moved in his arms, barely stirring, and L looked back at the woman. She turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back at L.

"His name is Nate River." Her voice was regretful as she stepped through the entrance of the building, before climbing into the passenger side of a car, idling at the sidewalk curb. The car backed from the driveway, and L and Roger watched until the pinpricks of the car lights faded away.

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A chubby thumb and an index finger pried open a heavy-lidded black eye.

"I think he's dead," four-year-old Mello declared mournfully to a silent Matt, who sat behind him, watching his proceedings with his head cocked. "Did L indicate any desire to be cremated, or does he wish to be buried?"

The eye blinked under his grip, and despite his cool demeanor, the child gave out an embarrassing squawk and fell back onto his backside.

"Mello." The voice was craggy and groggy with sleep.

"Y—yes, L?" young Mello tried to regain a small amount of dignity by heaving forward onto his knees, the soft fabric of his bed wrinkling under his slight weight.

"I _was _sleeping. In fact, I was quite _happy_ sleeping, considering I haven't slept in three days. That is, I _was _happy sleeping, until your sticky fingers woke me up."

"Sorry." The apology came quickly, _too _quickly, for sincerity, before Mello's small hands were grabbing at one of L's larger ones. "Now _get up! _C'mon, c'mon!"

When L refused to budge from his frog-like crouch on the sofa, Mello turned to glare over his shoulder.

"Matt!" he barked. "Help me!"

Wordlessly, Mello's friend toddled up to L, taking his other hand and pulling it in the direction they wanted him to go. L struggled without real heat, before speaking.

"_Stop_!" the word didn't come out as L had intended. Snatching his hand from Mello's grip, a wide-eyed L covered his mouth. Both children stopped in their tracks, Matt's mouth hanging open slightly.

"_Woah_, L!" Mello reached forward, poking at L's lips with his fingers. "How'd you make your voice sound so squeaky?" L shook his head away from Mello's grip.

"Your fingers taste like chocolate," he admonished, giving Mello a stern look. "We're you getting into Roger's stash ag_ain_?" His attempt at distraction ultimately failed with his voice cracking at the last bit of his sentence. Matt joined Mello as he began once again to prod at L's chapped lips.

"Stoppit," he growled, his voice now alarmingly low. This stopped Matt and Mello cold in their tracks; they looked at each other fearfully.

"What's going on, L?" Mello finally asked. "You're not possessed, like the girl in _The Exorcist _was, are you? Because if you are, we'd better put on our rain jackets; the green vomit isn't something I want to get on my clothing."

This caught L's attention. "Mello. You know you're not allowed to watch such movies until you are at least ten years old." He felt relief that his voice remained steady during the sentence.

Now Mello resumed, with doubled effort, on L's hand.

"Well, we were going to the nurse anyway," Mello told Matt, "So it's good that he got possessed now; maybe she can perform an exorcism."

The two small children managed to drag an unwilling L to his feet, forcing him to follow along behind them to the stairway, where he spotted a two-year-old Near seated on the largest step, a toy airplane in his hands. L managed to wriggle his hands free from the children's' sticky grasp, bending to scoop the child into his grasp, accidentally causing him to drop the airplane in the process. Mello kicked the plane down the stairs, watching it clatter out of sight, before turning to smile darkly at Near, who gazed steadily back at him.

"That was uncalled for, Mello," L gave the child a glare, as he felt his hand grasped by Matt, who threw a smug face over his shoulder at Mello. Friends they may be, but the chance to one-up each other in the eyes of L was too good a chance to pass up. Mello frowned. It was only Near's stupid toy; why should it matter? To redeem himself, he scampered down the steps and fetched it, waiting for the others to meet him at the bottom before trying to hand it to L.

"Don't give it to me," L admonished. "Give it to Near." Mello had to swallow his pride to do so, and made a sour face at Near before thrusting the toy at the little albino brat. _I really hate him… _was the only thing Mello could think as he watched the expressionless child accept the toy. _Clinging onto L like that… __I __was here first… _For want of something to do with his hands, he gripped Matt's free hand, and the four of them made their way to the nurse's office.

As her door swung open with a creak, the nurse's voice echoed out to them. "Hello!" she called, friendly as always. "You're just in time—if you had been any earlier, you would have had to wait while I treated Beyond's bloody nose. It's time for your monthly checkup, right?"

"Yes," Mello nodded importantly, smiling at the middle-aged woman in the white dress. "Also, L is possessed. We would appreciate it if you would do something about that." Matt nodded, too, shuffling forward to sit in one of the smaller chairs in the room and picking up a 1992 TV Boy and flicking the small gray screen to the game section, instantly tuned in with the small beeps and squeaks coming from the speakers of the television in the front of the room. Games came naturally to him.

A girl to the left of him cocked her head, intrigued, white-blonde hair covering her eye. "Wow," she marveled. "You're good, for a baby." He didn't even have to look up to respond. "I'm not a baby. I'm three years old." She shrugged, and then took the second game controller. "Wanna play me?"

"Nope; I already started the one-player." He didn't have to look to know that she rolled her eyes. "Hmph. Fine." She stood, ambling towards the nurse.

"Hey mom." She peeked shyly through her bangs at L. "Hi," she greeted him. He gave an awkward smile, not wanting to talk and treat her to an earache of his voice cracking. Mello gazed at her, for once speechless. She had to be about thirteen years old, with hair that almost reached her elbows and nearly clear blue eyes. She was skinny as a stick, with a bit of an acne problem, but Mello didn't notice any of this. To his four-year-old brain, she was the most beautiful _thing _he had ever seen.

"Hi, Halle." The nurse absently reached a hand back, putting an arm around her daughter's shoulder. "L, this is my daughter." Mello couldn't help but step forward, and then shook his head irritably. _Why am I being so shy?_ Bothered by his own different behavior, he grabbed a fold on her pants, tugging sharply. When she looked down at him, he grinned.

"I'm Mello." He searched for something to say, feeling her pale eyes heating into him. "I… uh… pushed Near into the pool yesterday."

"Did you?" she asked, smiling in an '_oh-what-a-cute-little-kid' _way.

"Yes," Mello responded matter-of-factly, warming to his story. "He would've drowned if Franz hadn't seen him and dived after him. Franz is the best swimmer at this school. He isn't all that smart, but we kept him 'cuz he's so "gifted" at swimming. You can only live here if you don't have parents, and are gifted. Are you gifted?"

"Yes," was all she responded with, without elaborating, and then looked at the child in L's arms. "Is this Near?"

"Yeah," Mello began, immediately disliking the fact that she was paying attention to Near, and not to him. "But he's not interesting. He never does anything but sits and does puzzles."

"Puzzles!" she remarked, surprised. "But he can only be…"

"Yeah, he's two," Mello quipped, thoroughly irritated now. "But I can do a _lot _more than him. I can swim, and I'm top in my age at capoeira. And…" he was about to ramble on about his list of achievements, when a hand covered his mouth.

"We have an appointment, Mello; we can't waste Nurse Bullook's time." L quickly ushered Mello into the check-up room, climbing onto the scale and calling for Matt over his shoulder.

Nurse Bulook entered the room. "It's a good thing you make an appointment for the four of you all at once," she chattered aimlessly, absently sticking a thermometer in Mello's ear, snapping a blood pressure cuff on Near, pushing Matt against the height measurement wall, and sliding the weights of the scale to determine the weight of the fourteen-year-old L. Nurse Bulook was very talented when it came to multitasking.

"It makes it easier this way," L responded as she scribbled his weight down on her clipboard. "Then I don't have to take them down individually for appointments every month." She smiled at him, and he was struck by how she resembled her daughter somewhat. He was studying genetics in his spare time, and this always intrigued him.

"So what is this about 'being possessed', L?" she teased. He sighed, raising an eyebrow at Mello who was still rubbing at his ear from the tickling sensation of the thermometer.

"Please don't mistake the first signs of puberty for something else." Was his only response.

Waiting outside the closed door of the examining room, Halle giggled.

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	2. Of foxes, mud, and bubble baths

_Author here! Severe fluff warning ahead! Near gets a bath, Matt gets a fox. Warning: may cause cavities. As always, I'm trying to improve my writing, so please, criticize my work! You don't have to be kind. _^.^_ Just be honest; tell me what you think! I realize that these are both set in bathrooms… There is no real reason behind this. _:D

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It was with a loud squelching sound that Near stuck both bare hands into a pile of mud. He made an unpleasant face before turning to face L, who crouched by a pile of green, feathery shoots that sprouted awkwardly out of a dry patch of ground.

"It seems that I dislike the sensation of mud between my fingers, L," Near spoke, his voice quiet.

"Come on, Near," L consoled. "Grow your peppermint properly, or you will not receive top marks in this assignment."

Near didn't sigh, but the face he made suggested that he would have liked to. Gripping the mud in his palms, he lifted fistfuls of it from the ground, setting it aside as he did so. Across the yard, three other students worked diligently on their respective projects. Near felt slightly envious that L was assigned with Yarrow, which required no mud whatsoever (although he had to admit it would be difficult to keep it dry in the rain).

The voice of a young girl carried around the yard. "Remind me _why _we have to do this asinine project again? I mean, what does it have anything to do with becoming super detectives, anyway?"

"Hush, Zadia," her companion glared at the younger girl, who blushed, ducking her head. "Anyway, we're doing this because our science professor took off on maternity leave and we're stuck with a less-than-competent long-term substitute who thinks this is what people our age should be doing."

"Ridiculous," a boy who was proudly growing out his first facial hairs shook his head. "We're way too smart for this."

"If you're so smart, then why are you trying to grow _mint _in _direct sunlight, _Chen?" Zadia tossed her black hair out of her face, a smudge of dirt covering her forehead. Her superior tone clearly irritated the boy, and bickering filled the warm springtime air.

Near opened a packet of seeds with his teeth, remembering what he had researched on the plant, he shook a small amount onto his palm, thrusting his hand deep into the earth to deposit them into the sucking, wet ground. He dusted them with a carefully-measured amount of organic rust-remover, hoping it was accurate before smoothing layers of mud over the hole and marking the area with a sign that read simply 'N'.

Looking back at L who appeared to be squeezing water over the barely-sprouted yarrow with an eyedropper, one eye closed in concentration, Near gave a tiny smile. L was always so concerned over his grades in every assignment—though he never stated why, Near knew it was because he loved him the most. He, Mello, and Matt seemed to be the only ones L would nag. Everybody else in the entire school, L could care less how they did on things.

The sixteen-year-old boy looked him in the eye, smiling. "Near, you're covered in mud." Near looked down at himself; the loose, long-sleeved white shirt, as well as his pants, were indeed blemished by fat streaks of the dark liquid substance.

"I… see," he remarked, more distressed than he let on. Near was not exactly a "neat freak", but the sight of something so perfect, marred so permanently… well, it bothered him.

He attempted to stand, but was sucked back down by the hold the ground had on his shoes. He must have let out a small sound of torment, because instantly large hands were there, gripping him underneath the arms and pulling him up. The four-year-old held perfectly still as an arm wriggled underneath his knees and he was pressed into a bony chest. Being carried by L came nearly as naturally as playing games did to him.

"You'll get dirty…" was his only warning, though he knew L wouldn't pay any mind to it. L always put Near first. He leaned back in the boys arms, tucking his head under L's chin, knowing he wouldn't mind even if the white curls tickled his nose.

They entered the building passing various clusters of students and the occasional staff member as they crossed the marble floor, entering the nearest bathroom, where L set the boy into an empty tub.

"Arms up," he commanded, and Near was pleasantly surprised. He hadn't had been bathed by L in a long time. He obeyed and closed his eyes as the soiled garment was lifted from his head, and the rest of his clothing was quickly removed and tossed aside before he was instructed to lie down and both water and bubble solution were poured into the porcelain tub. Two rubber ducks were tossed in for good measure and Near found himself contentedly playing with the ducks as nimble fingers worked the crusted mud from his hear using tear-free shampoo.

The silence between the two was a comfortable, familiar silence. The two already knew everything there was to know about the other (except L's name—Near had never learned that. Heck; Near wouldn't have known his _own _name had L not whispered it to him when he was three, making him promise to never say it again, to anyone), and neither of the two were particularly vocal. Near had the two ducks quack quietly to each other, causing them to soar through the air in his loose grip, then had them skid gently on the water, the angle carefully calculated so that a thin stream of water caught L directly in the face. L spluttered and Near watched, amused, as a single bubble tracked slowly from L's forehead, dripping downward until it popped.

There was silence in the spacious, empty bathroom for a moment, before L spoke.

"Near?"

"Yes, L?" Near was unable to hide his amusement at the whole situation.

"You do know my motto, don't you?" his intention resounded deep in Near's body. He did know L's policy, and he knew it well. _Uh-oh… _

"Once is once!" L's voice rang through the room, echoing slightly, before L's hand dipped into the water, causing a huge arc of it to rain down on Near, who, despite his usual calm demeanor, let out a very childish squeal, closing his eyes. Oh, _this _meant _war… _

The splashing of water, and the slapping sound that followed rang through the room, and soon the room was awash with water and squeals. The water churned in the tub, nearly sending Near over the edge of the tub and he sputtered, laughing. More and more droplets were flung through the air as the two entered an all-out splashing battle.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, the door behind them creaked open and Mello poked his head into the room, staring, astounded, and his two soaked companions as they engaged in a water skirmish of epic proportions. _What the hell… _He approached the two.

"L?" Mello was standing right behind the teenager, but he went unnoticed. Mello did _not like _going unnoticed. He wrapped both skinny arms around the boy's neck, and then squealed as L's head thrashed forward, sending Mello flying towards Near. He smacked into the wall and slid down, landing with a splash on top of the younger boy.

L reacted immediately. Seizing Mello in his arms, he lifted the sodden boy from the water. "Oh, Mello!" he cried unhappily. "I didn't know it was you! I…" he didn't have to explain. Mello should have known. One of the first things they taught you in self-defense; you feel yourself grabbed behind, you react defensively, before even thinking. He should have known. _Stupid, really… _that didn't help the fact that the wind was knocked out of him and he was having trouble gasping for breath.

He was held in L's arms for a long moment, until he was breathing evenly again, and he turned two blue eyes upon the teen whom he looked up to so much.

"You owe me some serious chocolate!" the adorably ferocious six-year-olds voice rang throughout the now soaked bathroom.

When he noticed the water dripping down the walls from the floor above, Roger put his face into his hands, squeezing the bridge of his nose. _I really need a vacation…_

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A toilet flushed nearby, and Matt stifled a groan, shifting from foot to foot. He _really didn't want to be here… _

He was standing by the sink area of a public rest stop in Manitoba, Canada, and he thought he was going to _lose his mind_. First off, he was here to compete in a competition that he had no interest in. Secondly, Mello wasn't there, and Matt had never before gone anywhere without Mello. And thirdly, he was tired, bored, and _cold_.

A woman stepped from the bathroom stall, surprising Matt. _Why is a girl in here…? _He shook it off when he noticed the "gender-neutral" plaque on the wall, feeling embarrassed for no reason as she washed her hands, flashing him a smile. Girls always thought he was 'cute', and it made him uncomfortable. He felt as if he had to be on his best behavior whenever they looked at him like that, and Matt wasn't overly fond of "best behavior".

As the woman exited the dingy bathroom, a rustling sound caused him to jump. He would have just shrugged it off as someone unrolling some toilet paper, had the wastepaper basket not shaken violently, followed by more rustling. Matt looked from side to side, making sure both L and Roger were still locked in their respective toilet cubicles, before hustling to the plastic bin and peeking inside.

At first he saw nothing except the tan-colored, water-stained paper towels, but with more rustles came a pointed black snout poking out of the mess, twitching slightly. _Woah… _He reached a mittened hand into the basket, cautiously shuffling papers aside, and two black eyes peeked up at him before, with a wiggle, a fox pup emerged from underneath the papers. Matt blinked, eyes huge. Out of all the things he had expected, this had to be the last.

Unsure what to do, he watched as the pup attempted to extract itself from the basket, but failed, falling back on its hindquarters with a sad, tiny-sounding exclamation. He bit his lip, knowing he really wasn't supposed to touch it; it was a wild animal, after all…

The woman's voice echoed into the bathroom from where she stood outside, causing him to jump. She appeared to be talking on a brick-sized cell phone.

"Ohmi_gawd, _Brian, there's a _dead fox _out here. Ugh; this place is a _dump. _Would you hurry _up _and get me?" she went on to complain how it wasn't _her _fault her car refused to start up again at the rest stop, but Matt wasn't listening as he put two and two together. Dead fox _outside_. _Baby _fox inside. His lightning-fast mind and eyes used to catching small details in video games traced a path—from a pile of cleaning supplies on the floor, to the sink, to the trash—it would be easy for even the smallest of foxes to get into the trash, probably seeking warmth.

It didn't take his speeding brain long to figure out that the fox would be unable to extract itself from the bin; the steep slippery sides no good for tiny clawed feet, and that, if left alone, would surely die of thirst or hunger. Unsure what to do, he jumped as another toilet flushed and, without thinking, he snatched the bundle of fur up in his arms, tucking it down the neck of his shirt just as Roger emerged from the stall. He concealed the wriggling baby, heart pounding, as best as he could as Roger washed up and beckoned Matt follow him from the bathroom, to the car idling in the parking lot.

Matt slid into the back seat where L waited for him, a wry smile on his face. He waited until Roger was settled in the passenger seat beside the chauffer before tugging on L's shirtsleeve, getting his attention. Matt put a finger to his lips, indicating silence, and waited until a confused-looking L nodded his agreement before tugging aside the neck of his own t-shirt, bending forward so that L could see down his shirt to the bundle of sandy-colored fur that shivered within.

L's eyes shot open, huge, but before he could say anything, Matt grabbed the seventeen-year-olds head, forcing him to look out the window at the sad pile of broken limbs outside; the mother fox, who had clearly been hit by a car. L gave him a look that he interpreted as "_are you crazy?" _but thankfully remained silent. Then, glancing furtively around, he stuck a hand down the neck of Matt's shirt, extracting the fox pup and hurriedly placing him into his backpack that rested between his knees, closing the zipper almost completely.

"You two are being awfully quiet," Roger remarked from the front seat, causing both of the boys to jump guiltily.

"Sorry, sir," a breathless L responded, his brain clicking mightily in its search for a response. "I'm just somewhat nervous about meeting this "Mr. Wammy". I don't really know what to say."

"Nonsense!" boomed the confident voice of Roger. "He is very interested in meeting you, 'Deneuve'. All you have to do, really, is display your expertise in the French language, as well as your skills in solving fabricated cases. He was impressed by your scores on your exams and believes there is a bright future for you—_not _that there was any doubt about that," he added smugly.

"I still don't see why we have to come all the way to Canada," Matt chimed in, searching for something to say. "I don't mind; it's lovely here," he added quickly; Roger hated when children complained, "But you'd think if he was so interested in L, he'd come to Winchester to meet him."

Even without him turning to face the two of them, Matt was aware that Roger was glaring. "You know very well that _you _didn't "have" to come along, Matt," the irritation in his voice was evident. "It would have been fine if it was just L and I. However, _Deneuve _insisted that he bring a companion along, and so we hosted that French contest, assuming Mello would win. You just got lucky, I presume." Matt fought back a flush. He really wasn't fond of Roger, and knew the old man disliked him as well, but knew there was no point in arguing. He had worked _really hard _to prepare for that contest; it had been anything _but _luck that he had won.

There was a small rustling in L's backpack, and L shifted around to cover the sound. Matt dug around in his own bag, extracting small pieces of ham from his sandwich and tucking them into the bag, waiting until he felt a snout at his fingertips, first sniffing at and then eating the ham. He hoped the fox wouldn't make a mess in L's bag; that would be hard to explain away. He got out a coloring book that Roger had packed for him; clearly, Roger knew nothing about Matt's interests. Instead, he wrote a note on a picture of a smiling ice cream cone.

_What can you tell me about this fox?_

L took a green crayon, writing underneath Matt's scrawled note.

_Vulpes Velox (Swift Fox). Male. About four months old. Omnivorous. _

Matt nodded, and L continued writing.

_We need to get it to wildlife preservation, or the closest thing. You can't keep it; you'll be caught._

This is what Matt had been afraid of.

_We can't tell Roger. _His blue crayon hurriedly scratched out the words. _He'd probably just make me leave it on the side of the road or something. That'd kill it, L!_

L searched the six-year-olds face, seeing an interest, bordering on desperation, which he hadn't seen before. It registered in his mind that Matt, too, had been orphaned after his mother had been killed in a car accident. He sighed; there was no way he had it in his conscious to make Matt abandon this fox.

_I agree. Don't worry about it; I'll come up with something… _

L gently reached into his bag, scooting the fox aside gently to extract the laptop, which he opened and began an internet search for 'Wildlife preservations in Manitoba'. Matt relaxed; L would take care of everything- he always had. Matt dipped his hand in L's bag to scratch the baby behind the ears, ignoring his friend's glare at his actions. He knew what L would be thinking; _parasites, rabies, disease, germs… _but found he didn't care. He identified with this little animal, with its ferocious yellow eyes in the small, helpless body. He couldn't just leave it, no matter what anybody said.

The drive to the hotel room lasted little more than an hour, but night was already falling as they pulled into the parking lot. Matt's eyes had been growing heavier and heavier as the moments passed, and found that they wouldn't open entirely, even as he felt his body being lifted from where he had been leaning on L's bony shoulder. He was tucked over a uniformed shoulder, a hand coming to rest on his back, the other just above the backs of his knees, as the driver carried him to the door. He opened one eye to watch L slide his backpack over his shoulders before grabbing both his own and Matt's suitcases from the trunk, before allowing his eyes to close once again. It had been a long day; two plain flights and several long drives with very few stops in between.

He was completely out of it as they checked into the hotel, wasn't aware of anything as they ascended levels in an elevator, or even when L tenderly slipped his shoes off and tucked him under the covers of the bed the two of them shared (Roger got his own bed). He was completely unconscious as the driver was paid, as suitcases were unpacked and dinner was eaten, and even as L and Roger finally called it a night, L settling beside him in his usual crouching position on top of the pile of hotel pillows.

He was shaken awake at around four in the morning, according to his internal clock. _"Matt!" _L hissed underneath his breath. _"Wake up!" _Matt obliged, green eyes crusty from sleep blinking in the dark. Roger's obnoxiously loud snores permeated the room.

"Whuddisit?" he drawled sleepily, curling his body in a fetal position, trying to get closer to L's body warmth. L rolled his eyes, seizing him under the arms and dragging him off the bed, one hand pressed firmly over his mouth, the other searching blindly underneath the bed.

"What are you doing?" Matt whispered, shaking L's hand off.

"I can't find the fox," came the worried reply. Matt was suddenly alert.

"_What?" _

"Shush! I looked in my backpack, and it was empty! Where can…"

Both boys looked at each other, the same idea occurring to them both at the same time. With dread in their hearts, L flicked the lamp on to its lowest setting.

There, on Roger's chest, bushy black tail underneath the man's nose like some outrageous mustache, dozed the fox pup. Matt would have laughed, had his heart not been pounding so fast. Biting his lip, the child crept forward, kneeling on Roger's bed and ever-so-gently lifting the fox in his arms, trying not to wake it—or worse, _Roger. _The old man's breath fluffed the fur of the fox, and the baby's tail twitched, rubbing underneath the old man's nose.

_This isn't going to end well… _Matt thought, horrified, snatching the fox away even as the nose twitched violently. An explosive sneeze sent him tumbling from the mattress, holding the fox tightly so as to not crush it underneath his body. He was seized by L, shoved into his own mattress with the blankets tossed haphazardly over his head. He feigned sleep, holding the now-struggling pup to his chest, thumb and forefinger pinching its muzzle closed, keeping it from yipping. _Sorry, little guy… _

"L! What the blazes…" Roger seemed flustered. Waking with a teenage boy looming over you did that to a person.

"Sorry, sir, I couldn't sleep, and with all the shadows, it looked like something was on you…"

There was a rustling sound, and Roger spoke again. "What are all these hairs on me?"

"Hairs, sir?"

"Hairs! Short, ginger hairs! Do you have a _cat _with you, L?" the man's tone was bewildered, and disgusted. Matt fought back a laugh, even as tiny claws scrabbled against his chest.

"No, sir, no cat. Perhaps you should just go back to sleep…" L was pushed aside as the man strode from the bed.

"_Ugh—_I smell! That's it—I don't know what's going on, L, but I'm going to take a shower. You'd better be back in bed when I come out."

"Yes, sir."

The two waited before the splashing of the shower water could be heard before L was at Matt's side again, yanking him from the covers.

"Come _on!" _Matt tucked the fox back underneath his shirt once again and was hustled from the hotel room, pausing only to make sure that the door closed silently behind him before he was thrown over L's shoulders as the man sprinted for the elevator.

"We don't have much time—" he hissed.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a wildlife preservation unit a few blocks over—if we hurry, and I drive the van we rented, we can be there in time!"

"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE," came Matt's terrified response, a little louder than he had intended.

"It can't be that difficult."

Apparently it was more difficult than L had let on, because they nearly hit a parking meter _and _a parked van in the car that Roger had rented. However, before ten minutes were up (Matt was definitely convinced that they were speeding), they made it to a gate, where a plump woman stood waiting.

"Are you Jamison Oliver?" the woman asked, stifling a yawn as L screeched to a stop, nearly hitting the gate.

"Yeah, that's me," L drawled. His New York accent was thick, but realistic enough not to draw any attention. He grabbed the fox from underneath Matt's top and held it out to the lady. "Thanks for agreeing to meet me here on such short notice."

"Oh, it was nothing!" she smiled. "I'm just glad to hear that you kids these days take an interest in saving the environment! Sure, it _is _sort of unusual to be asked to pick up an orphaned pup at four thirty in the morning, but," she laughed good-naturedly, "as long as this little guy's ok, it's all good, right?

They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before, with Matt's urging, L was back behind the wheel, careening from his park job back onto the road.

"If we're too late, we could be in so much trouble…" L was stressing, brushing his messy black hair from his face as he gripped the steering wheel in his white-knuckled left hand. Matt kept silent on the journey back, even as L made sure to park in the correct spot, angling the car slightly so as to not catch the attention of either their hired driver or Roger.

Matt was once again lifted up as the two practically flew up the elevator, reaching the hotel room door with moments to spare, before L began to swear rapidly in Japanese underneath his breath.

"What is it, L?"

"I forgot the room key."

Matt panicked, even as L resignedly knocked on the door and, after a few moments, Roger answered the door, his face stern. Before either boy could offer an explanation, he held up a hand, silencing them.

"Save it; I _don't _want to know. L, all I can say is that you'd _better _make a good impression on Quillish Wammy tomorrow or there will be serious consequences."

"Yes, sir," L agreed, setting Matt back down. Roger stood aside, his glare not once waning as the two settled back into their bed, still clad in their pajamas. Matt felt ridiculously guilty; he had caused L to get into trouble…

Roger flicked the lights off, and within moments they were once again treated to his snores. A hand enclosed around Matt's in the darkness.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" L whispered into his ear. Matt grinned. L was the best.

L did make a good impression on Mr. Wammy, it seemed. The return home was filled with proud compliments from Roger, of how L was going to go far, and become the world's greatest detective. L exchanged a private smile with Matt. Everything _had _gone well after all, it seemed.

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_A/N_: _That was insanely fun to write. I warn you now, though; there may not be any chapters for about two weeks or so; Final Exams are this week in school, and soon I'll be going on a trip with my History class. Don't you worry though; I have a lot of plans for this story. It won't be forgotten. (I'll try to post at least one more chapter this week)._


	3. Of fighting, fish soup, and goodbye

_Goodbye may seem forever/ Farewell is like the end/ But in my heart's a memory/ and there you'll always be_

_-Disney's "Fox and the Hound"_

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"… and, using the Number Four tweezers, please, _gently, _now, Eden, we are not carving a pumpkin, remove the tapetum. When held under a microscope, the tapetum will reveal…"

"L. I need you to come to my office, please." L started a little in his seat, dropping the metal tweezers onto his dissecting tray. His partner, a younger boy called Tahir, appeared to have been turning steadily greener ever sense they removed the lens four steps ago. He looked up to face the classroom's announcement system, where Roger's disembodied voice floated down from.

"You'd better go, L," Professor Gansah looked a little upset. "It's a bummer, too; we haven't even had time to extract the Vitreous Humor yet; that's my favorite part, you know."

"That's all right," L consoled her, placing his half of the surgical tools into the sink closest to his desk. "I've already dissected a cow's eyes, twice before. This is nothing new." He gave Tahir an apologetic smile before slipping from the room.

Roger's office was as neat as it always was, with only a box of tissues and a couple of knick knacks on the desk. File folders were kept in locked cabinets, and the walls were bare. L crouched in a wooden chair facing the desk and waited for Roger to speak with him.

For the first time L had ever seen him, the man appeared at a loss for words. He shuffled some papers, filing them away, not meeting L's eye. This made L suspicious. _What is it? _He thought, nervously. _Did Mello get in another fight? _Alarm bells rang in L's head.

Roger finally looked up, a sigh in his throat.

"L," he began. His voice was gentler than L had ever heard it before; gentle, and was that regret in the tone? What could it be—was it… something to do with his parents? Roger continued.

"L, you're nineteen now. You're two years older than most people are when they _leave _this academy."

Dread sank low in L's stomach. _Ah. So this was it. _Somehow, it was much worse than if Mello had gotten into more fights, or even if it _had _had something to do with his parents.

"So, you're asking me to leave, is it?" L's tone was carefully controlled; cold, even. No need to betray any emotion to this man.

Roger looked distinctly uncomfortable now. "It's not like _that_, L, but you knew you couldn't stay here forever."

Childish arguments arose in L's mind. _Why not? Why can't I stay here? Why do I have to do anything? _But he kept his mouth shut, unable to speak.

Roger cleared his throat. "I've, uh, made arrangements with Quillsh Wammy. You will leave tomorrow morning at five."

This news hit him like a kick from a bull, but L hadn't been trained to lie from early childhood for nothing. Face impassive, he did nothing but look at Roger.

"I see," was the only thing he said before standing and walking to the office door.

There was a pause, as Roger hesitated, completely bewildered. "L! We need to talk about your plans…" he watched, transfixed, as the teenage boy—no, _not _a 'boy' anymore, really—didn't even bother to turn fully around, instead jerking a chin over a hunched shoulder with the most unusual smile Roger had ever seen before on a student.

"Roger," L's voice sounded tired. He had never before called the man by his first name before; always it had been "sir". "Roger," L repeated, drawing the man's attention. "If it is as you say it is, then I only have fourteen hours. I'd prefer not to spend it in here." The words, which could be taken as flippant, were anything _but _rude; they were dry and sincere, as if Roger no longer had any hold of L. As if L had completely slipped from the man's grasp.

The door whispered closed behind a retreating L, and Roger sat back at his desk, rubbing his forehead. _Quillsh, _he thought to himself, his lips forming the words though no sound came out. _What on earth were you thinking, charging me with these people? _He examined his framed collection of insects, held into place with small pins on a background of plush-covered cardboard. _They're impossible to pin down, those kids._

Mello was perched, tongue clamped between his teeth, staring intently into the pages of his Advanced Psychology textbook as if believing that, if he stared _hard _enough, the information would ingrain into his brain and never abandon him, not even during a test, on a large stone bench underneath one of the school's chestnut tree. He was startled when he realized that there was a figure behind him, and jerked a little when the slight scent of frosting hit his nostrils.

"Oh, L!" he exclaimed, after he had spun around, relieved that it was only him and not that _new _girl, Linda, who had been tailing him like the lost soul she was, never speaking, only staring with empty brown eyes. Having been found nearly naked in a patch of briers in North Manchester only three months prior, she had yet to speak and seemed to find solace in staring at only Mello with her dead eyes, which made him more anxious then he liked to let on. "It's you!" the remark, though somewhat stupid, didn't seem to resound with the more-preoccupied-than-usual L, who spoke only once.

"Please, meet me in my bedroom," L's voice was very distant, and instantly Mello's head cocked. He had an IQ well over 200; it was really no stretch for him to be able to tell when _something was wrong. _"If you see Matt or Near, please take them with you."

He didn't have to speak twice. Mello wasn't thinking about the fact that, _technically, _he was in class; their Study Period, to be exact. He didn't bother to bring up the fact that, if he was caught ditching class, he'd be marked forever as a "ditcher", something he'd avoided until now. No; if L needed Mello, for whatever reason, Mello was _there. _

He and L sped in the opposite directions; L searching deeper into the school grounds for Matt or Near, Mello towards the dormitories. He was on the ground floor, heading towards L's bedroom, when it occurred to him that he knew where Near was. With a muffled curse that, to a stranger, would sound odd coming from the pink lips of the angelic-looking nine-year-old, he turned around, going back to the kitchen.

"Near!" his shout echoed through the marbled hallways. He knew the servants allowed Near to play in the kitchen; he preferred it to the playrooms where the younger children often congregated. The staff at Wammy's generally had a soft-spot for the cotton-haired child; he was so small and quiet and _alone _that they could hardly help themselves from trying to spoil him. "_NEAR_!"

The staff's head chef, Aqua, poked her head from the room, her dyed-blue hair from whence her name stemmed pinned up in a severe bun. "_Mello!" _she hissed, shooting him a scowl. "If you try to hit him again, I swear to God…" she didn't finish her threat, merely brandished a soapy frying pan she had snatched from the sink in a vaguely ominous factor. Mello ignored her as the round face of Near peeked out from the door as well, eyes blank as always, a plastic train clenched in a fist.

"What is it, Mello?" his voice was as soft, a direct contrast to Mello's screamingly brash tone, sending a shiver up Mello's spinal cord; he _really _hated Near's creepy voice. It was so _unnatural. _In fact, _all _of Near was unnatural; too white, too blank, too _soft and quiet. _Mello had a hard time believing that _this _was an actual seven-year-old boy and not the robot he behaved like.

"Just _come here," _Mello snarled, not bothering to explain. When Near made no effort to stand, Mello seized him roughly about the collar, dragging him to his feet, causing him to drop the train from the jostling.

"Mello!" Aqua squawked indignantly. "What did I say!" she aimed a swat, using the pan, at Mello's jean-clad rear, which he narrowly dodged.

"I'm not gonna _hit _him!" Mello growled, infuriated. "L _needs_ him!"

Aqua's stern face softened somewhat in her surprise. "Oh, well, then, I suppose…"

Mello didn't wait for her answer. Forcefully dragging Near behind him by the arm, he towed the silent child back to L's bedroom, where L and Matt waited inside, L having found Matt by the pond, playing with the battered hand-held video game he had found in the playroom.

Mello released Near's arm and watched, disgustedly, as the child settled down in a kneeling position in the center of L's carpet, fingers absently tugging at the threads of the floor, before turning to the man he admired most, sliding next to Matt on L's bed as he did so. The three children looked expectantly at L, who stood in the room, next to the door.

"What is it?" Matt asked, game forgotten, hands unconsciously grabbing fistfuls of L's bedding as he did so. Mello could feel Matt's breath on his neck, could practically hear the younger boy's heartbeat, stuttering irregularly in his skinny chest. _At least Matt agrees, _Mello thought, trying to take comfort in this. _There's no way this can be good…_

L's eyes were expressionless as he regarded each of their faces carefully. _May as well say it…_

"I'm being forced to leave the academy. Tomorrow."

The silence shrouded the room the moment the words left his lips, the children scarcely daring to breathe. Mello was, of course, the one to shatter the silence.

"_What?" _

L swallowed. He didn't need to repeat. He examined each of their faces; Near, deadpan as always, Matt, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and Mello, hunched forward, small hands clenched into straining fists, his eyes practically swallowing his whole face as he _stared _at L. Mello quickly tried to recover.

"But, that's _ok_, right?" he babbled, refusing to let the silence to settle once again. "I mean, _everybody _has to leave when they're adults, right? So just get a job here or something. This doesn't have to be…"

"Mello," L interrupted dark eyes boaring into Mello's painfully-stretched blue ones. "Mello, you _know_ that—"

Mello talked louder, drowning out the voice of L, the pitch of his voice steadily rising. "Yeah, sure, it'll be _weird_; you'll have to live in the Staff Building. But we can probably get around that, too. There's no reason that this has to be weird. I mean—"

It was Matt who turned to face the babbling blonde this time and, just by looking into his best friend's eyes, Mello was stopped cold. The unhidden green eyes, they spoke volumes. _No, Mello, _the eyes said. _The answer is no. You know that the answer is no._

Mello's jaw shut with an achingly loud _click, _his mastermind of a brain for once being too slow to connect the dots quickly. If the eyes of _Matt_, eternal _optimist_ Matt, were clouded over with that hopeless, knowing look, then that could _only _lead him to conclude…

A low, moaning, _keen _of a sound was in the room, and it took Mello a second to realize that it was coming from his throat. He felt as if his magnificent brain were cracking along the seams, connections fizzing, wires bursting as the system was rapidly destroyed.

"You'll still see us all the time…" Mello's voice was, for the first time, small and tinny-sounding. He already knew the answer.

"I can't." L's voice was clipped, detached; "I'm officially a detective now. It's part of my job to break all previous connections. I'll be killed if I'm easy, or even _possible_, to trace."

_Oh. _Mello's brain, cut short in the alarmingly prompt destruction of all holds on sanity halted, a form of self-preservation kicking in his _furious _mode. _He's disengaging himself already, it seems? _Bitter, acidic _fury _snaked its way up Mello's spine, creeping into its brain and sinking its nasty fangs in the boy's cranium, deeper than ever before. Unable to speak, the boy positively _vibrated _with emotion.

Somehow, Matt _knew. _Matt _always _knew. A hesitant hand approached Mello's shaking shoulder, reluctant to touch him in case that was what set off the minefield Matt was ultra-aware Mello was holding inside. Gritting his teeth, he touched his best friend. Mello flinched forward but otherwise didn't react as Matt's hand traced what he hoped was a comforting circle over the boy's back.

This time it was Near who spoke. Emotionless, as always, Near affirmed "so, we will never be seeing you again, is that the case?"

L approached the boy. Kneeling in a crouch in front of him, he stared, intently, into Near's eyes. "_Listen to me," _he spoke quietly now, his voice showing strains of pain and urgency underneath the quiet tone. He glanced around at Matt and Mello, and then returned his focus to Near.

"_This is why you have to be the best,_" his uncharacteristically intense voice insisted. "_This _is why you three _have _to be _the best_. Because, there is a possibility, that if one of you was to become the next L, then we would see each other again."

Matt felt Mello's muscles bunch under his hand, and he knew why; L was speaking primarily to Near, about being the best, about _maybe _seeing him again one day. L was barely holding even a pretense of considering the possibility of Mello becoming the next L, and he automatically gripped his friend's shoulder warningly. _Oh, this isn't going to be pretty…_

L continued, his attention more or less completely devoted to Near. "Although it can't be guaranteed, there _is _a possibility that I will live to retirement, will pass on the L name to one of you three. If that is the case, then it's _almost _guaranteed that we will be allowed to meet, even for one last time."

Near's voice was level, as he gave a tiny nod.

"I understand."

There was a momentary pause that felt like it lasted for hours, before Near spoke again.

"Do you want us to help you pack?"

_This_ was the final straw. Launching himself off of the bed in a blur of motion, so quickly that Matt found himself tumbling to the floor; Mello flung himself on top of Near, slamming his fists on every part of the boy he could reach.

"_YOU…!" _Matt found himself unable to completely understand the words spewing from Mello's mouth as he thrashed at the unstruggling child beneath him. All reason was gone from the eyes of Mello; only an enraged animal remained, urging him to _hurt every part of Near possible. _The words evolved into a scream, uninterrupted by syllables or pauses.

In an instant, Matt was there, his arms around Mello's stomach, yanking backwards. Mello stumbled for only a moment before shooting a fist over his own shoulder, catching Matt directly in the face. With a loud "_Gah_!" of shock and pain, Matt fell onto his backside, his cupped palms being filled with blood that streamed from his nose. It felt as if his brain were rattled in his head.

L leapt into the fray, seizing Mello in his arms, dragging him away from the now bleeding Near. Mello flailed and kicked in L's arms, soon blindly turning his fists to pound relentlessly into L's chest. Reaching for L's face but being held at bay by L's long arms, Mello could only let out an enraged scream.

A sickening _crack _filled the room, and Mello stopped cold, staring, unbelieving, at L.

"You…" he panted for breath, incredulous, as L raised his hand once again, a stern look on his face. "You _hit _me, L?"

Instead of the answer he was expecting, the "once is once" that he had heard on previous, similar experiences, he was shocked when L once again knelt to the floor, Mello in his arms. He was squeezing Mello tightly; _painfully _tightly, but Mello was too astounded to let out even a whimper of protest. He was frozen short when he felt lips press to his hair, a liquid warmth touch his face. In his entire life, he had never seen L kiss _anyone, _had never seen L shed even a single tear.

He held still in the man's grasp, feeling L look up a second later, eyes tearless. And yet, a spot of Mello's face, close to his own eye, remained damp. _That isn't my tear…_ Mello's anger had dissipated entirely from the touches, possibly from the shock _of _said touches, and he was now aware of the trickle of blood down his hand from where he had cut it on Near's teeth, and the fact that his cheek burned as if it had been lit on fire from the slap. He could feel it swelling already. The tear that wasn't his rolled from his face to his shirt and Matt stared at it, confused and transfixed, the trail of blood from his own nose already stemming.

Near sat up, panting, his mouth slightly open, and Mello immediately noticed a gap in the boy's teeth. _Oh, shit… _

Near coughed, and one of his front teeth tumbled out from his throat where he had nearly swallowed it into his palm. He examined it for a moment, turning it this way and that, wiping the red smears from the base away with a thumb, before looking at Mello.

"Don't worry, Mello," Near responded to the look on the boy's face, giving a smile that only further served to emphasize the already apparent future-bruises on his face, the vacancy in his mouth. "It was loose anyway." Mello squirmed uncomfortably, and was rewarded by L repositioning himself until Mello was seated in L's lap, L's arms around his stomach, preventing him from rising again. He looked away from Matt, guiltily.

"Look." L finally spoke, and there was once again a noticeable, unfamiliar hoarseness and desperation, barely concealed, in the tone. "_Stop, _you three. Just _stop_."

Matt considered mentioning that he had no part in this and that it wasn't exactly _fair _that he was now bleeding onto the white carpet, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He felt sick to his stomach, both from the pain, the already aching loss of L that was to come all too shortly, and from the dramatic scene that had just infolded in front of him, and didn't think that speaking his mind would make him feel any better.

Wordlessly, he crept forward until he sat by L, leaning into the man. Unable to help himself, he touched Mello's face where the swelling was already partially concealing one of his eyes. _I shouldn't feel sorry for him… _He told his mind, angrily; _I'm losing just as much as he is, MORE than he is, really; there never was a chance for me to become the next L, and yet you don't see ME throwing punches! _But the sight of his closest friend in obvious pain automatically triggered the 'worry' part of his brain. When it came to Mello, nothing ever made sense.

L awkwardly slipped released his grip on Mello with only one arm, still clutching the scrawny blonde to his chest with the other, as he worked an arm around Matt. Now it was only Near on the outside, watching the proceedings with vacant eyes. A tiny line of blood ran from his lip down his chin and he wiped at it, inhaling sharply. L beckoned at him, but the youngest child didn't move from where he sat.

"Do you understand me?" L finally asked, after a long moment of silence filled the bedroom.

"You're leaving," responded Near, his voice more robotic than usual. "You're going away. You're never coming back. It's likely that you're going to die before you reach retirement age. There's only a twelve percent chance that anyof us will ever see you again."

Each word that the emotionless, bloody boy spoke felt like a dull blow to Matt's stomach. He knew every word spoken was true, but that just made it hurt more. The silence wasn't so suffocating anymore as it was heartbreaking. The four shifted around, waiting for one to speak. Finally, Near stood, depositing both Matt and Mello back on the bed, before disappearing through the door, returning moments later with several damp washcloths and a bucket of ice. Matt's face was scrubbed free of the drying blood, and ice was applied to Mello's cheek, while Near was given a single cube to hold in place where his tooth had once been.

L then went to his closet and, their hearts sinking, Matt and Mello watched as a single, scuffed black suitcase was pulled from the shelf. Matt moved his head so that it rested on Mello's shoulder, serving two purposes; both giving Matt a place to rest his aching head, and keeping Mello grounded to earth; a reminder for him to not fly into a rage again.

The three watched, unmoving, as dressers were open and items were meticulously folded and layered in the suitcase. Several items were deposited beside the children; a pair of nearly unused sneakers that no longer fit the black-haired man, several shirts, his old swimming goggles, a tan blanket. Near stood too, standing beside L and taking the things the man handed down to him, folding them better, more crisper, before replacing them in the suitcase, the bottom of which was beginning to look like a Tetris game of utmost perfection.

Soundlessly, Mello moved until he was laying on the bed, flat on his back, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, though Matt remained seated, his back ramrod straight as he watched the proceedings with dry eyes.

The sun slipped across the sky as the luggage, now full, was moved to the center of the bedroom.

"It's dinner time," L spoke softly, stating the obvious. "Would you like to go to the cafeteria and-"

"No." Mello's voice was firm as he interrupted, even as Matt's stomach let out a growl. Mello glared at him.

"Then should I go and bring food back?" L asked, sincerely.

"No! God, just…" Mello stood, walking from the room. "Stay," he called over his shoulder to the three in the room. "I'll be right back."

He nearly sprinted all the way to the aromatic, huge room. Students were already milling in there, trays full of food. He knew he was being stared at and gritted his teeth in a feral snarl, blocking out the attention. Aqua, who had by now heard about L's departure, for once gave Mello a sympathetic face.

"Mello…" she began, sliding covered bowls of the soup, rolls wrapped in a cloth napkin, a thermos of some type of hot drink, into a bag without having to be asked for the extra effort. He ignored her, took the bag from her hand, turned to go…

…And bumped, chest-to-face, with little Linda. She gazed at him with heavily-lashed brown eyes, and he sighed. He tried to push her gently aside but found his sleeve gripped in her small hand. Bringing her hand to his face, she touched the swelling as he, and the rest of the cafeteria, stared at her, wide-eyed.

"M—e—llo," she spoke, her voice quiet and halting, her accent thick, as she did so. Her lips trembled with the effort. She said nothing else, even as, with a clatter, Aqua dropped her serving ladle, hustling around the counter to wrap her arms around the child.

"Linda!" she exclaimed happily, tears surfacing in the corners of her eyes. "You finally _talked_!" the girl didn't react, her eyes once again slipping into the dead unresponsiveness that they had been ever since she arrived. Mello gaped a little, and then thought _I don't have time for this… _before hurrying out of the room. He arrived back to the others in record time and as they sat, eating their fish-and-rice soup which was thick and creamy and delicious (as was everything that came from Aqua and her workers' kitchen), barely tasting it and, in order to break the cheerless silence of the room, Mello recounted the tale.

"Interesting," Near replied. "You could consider spending time with her; obviously she derives comfort or motivation from you. Perhaps your face reminds her of someone good." Mello considered responding that he was _nobody's babysitter_, but decided, for L's sake, to hold his tongue.

The evening slipped by distressingly quickly, but the children displayed no signs of being tired. It was well past ten into the evening before L, the big brother figure that he was, forced them into their nighttime ritual, which all but Near hurried through.

Matt and Mello arrived back to the bedroom in time to see L changing into his pajamas, and Mello cringed a little when the bony man removed his shoulder, seeing a spattering of small but dark purple bruises on his chest. _Sorry, L, _he thought regretfully, wishing he hadn't hit so much and so hard.

L, true to his night-owl nature, did not once suggest that they sleep, which Mello was grateful for. L gestured to the pile of things in the room a little apart from his luggage.

"Please," he spoke. "These things are still good, but they either no longer fit, or I don't need them anymore. Keep them for yourselves, or give them to somebody who could use them; you know how I don't like to waste things."

Several hours were spent talking, and Matt fished out a deck of cards from the pile of things L no longer wanted, wherein the four spent playing several card games, until Near took too many and began to form a tower. It felt like any other night, really; these things were so ordinary. But then Matt would look at the pile of luggage, and the façade would come crashing down once again.

It was nearing two in the morning when, with a flurry of cards fluttering through the air, Near crashed on the carpet, mouth open, dark eyelashes making shadows on his paper-white skin. Matt heaved him onto the bed with a reluctant Mello's assistance, and Matt felt that, if he didn't speak, nobody would.

"L, you should sleep," he told the detective gently, wary of Mello's exhausted face contorting in anger as he said it. "You… Well, I don't know where you're going, but traveling always takes a lot out of you."

L looked into the redheads green eyes for a long moment, before nodding.

"I understand, Matt," was all he said. He waited for Matt to climb into the bed, pushing Near to the other side and folding the blanket over the both of them. Mello scowled for another few seconds and then, with a huff, crawled between the two, purposely being as obnoxious as possible as he sprawled in the center of the bed, sending both Matt and Near dangerously close to the edge.

L remained where he sat on the floor, taking a very long time to gather the cards up, stacking them in their correct order before snapping a rubber band over them to keep them in place and sliding them into their box, before placing it back onto his pile of things he no longer needed. He switched the bedroom light off but did not climb onto the bed until the breathing of the three boys was even enough for him to know that they had all fallen asleep.

Crouching at a small corner of the bed, right where Near's feet ended (goodness; there was almost no room left for him; when had they gotten so _big_), he surveyed them by the light of the streetlamp outside. Near was on the right, practically smashed against the wall with Mello curling around his body, his head resting on Near's chest. One of Near's hands was raised up, his hand caught in Mello's hair. Mat was on his side, a hand stretched across Mello's stomach, his fingertips brushing Near's elbow. Their faces were so peaceful in sleep, and L took quite a long moment to capture them in his outstanding memory; confining the way they looked right now in his cranium. Although he had never allowed himself to even think it before, he finally permitted himself to do it, just the once. _I love them…_

With dread heavy in his heart, he buried his face in his arms and, leaning against the wall a little, L slept.

With a creasing of the eyelids, L awoke before a knock at the door could sound. He felt tired—_exhausted_, really, but then, he _always _did. He had taken a two-year course a few years ago completely devoted to sleep—and how to have the least amount of it as possible—but despite how successful he was at it, it didn't take away the headaches and the bleary eyes.

He slipped from his warm bed, gathering his luggage, before turning back. He figured he'd never get a chance to do this again, and so he took that chance. He started with Near, the one whom he'd be most likely to see again, cupping the rounded chin once in his hand as he examined the boy's face, committing it to memory. Photographs were too dangerous a tool to ever be allowed by Wammy's house; if he was to remember them with the sharpest of clarity, he'd better _burn _this into his mind.

Moving on to Mello, he felt as if his heart were being seized. _Oh, Mello… _The tiger of a boy, ferocious even in sleep; though L knew it was wrong to pick favorites, a part of his heart, though he knew it was impossible, hoped that this boy would win, would become first, and would become the next L.

When L moved on to Matt, he hesitated before touching him. Matt had always been the lightest sleeper, waking at even the smallest of sounds. Still… L softly rubbed the boy's cherry-red hair, committing the rough texture to his memory. He was unsurprised when green eyes flew open and the two silently sized each other up. _Matt is probably the wisest of them all, _L mused, noticing the understanding in the boy's eyes. Matt's eyes were telling him "_I won't say anything; Mello wouldn't be able to handle it if he knew I had these last moments with you." _L's heart gave a low, unhappy throb of pain and he turned away, slipping silently through the door and letting himself out, towing his suitcase behind him, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he looked back once, giving Matt a nod. The understanding and resignment on Matt's face resounded deep within L. There was no way he'd ever be able to forget the faces of those he considered his younger siblings.

L was unsurprised to see Roger waiting in the hallway outside the bedroom, and L held a finger to his lips. Roger peeked over L's shoulder into the room and, seeing the three boys, gave a nod, gesturing to the doors leading to the outside of the building, where a small black car idled in the driveway.

The door closed behind L with a click, and Matt gave a small sigh, turning back and looking at his two companions with blank green eyes. _I suppose that's the end of that… _he thought, mournfully.

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_So today was the last day of school, and I did well on my Final Exams! *does a little happy dance* I decided to celebrate by typing this up. Whew! I didn't plan on it being so _long_ (it's more of an "album of time" then a "snapshot of time", huh?) Bear with it, everybody! _


	4. Of cooking, kisses, and yet another bath

_August, 1990_

_Yagami Residence_

"Come on Sayu! Go to Light! _Good girl!" _Soichiro coaxed his daughter, all chubby baby limbs and drooly toothless smiles towards her older brother.

Her brown eyes searched around, confused, until they met the face of Light. Mouth opening in a happy coo of recognition, stamping one unsteady foot in front of the other in her attempts to reach him, she wobbled forward, arms outstretched, towards the one she loved and trusted. A light fuzz of dark-brown hair covered her otherwise bald scalp and, dressed in only a diaper, the otherwise naked fourteen-month-old baby made her way toward her older sibling who waited, crouched, arms open.

"Isn't she a little old for this?" Light questioned his father as his sister teetered a little off course. "The average baby begins walking at ten to twelve months old. " He leaned forward a little on his heels as he noticed her begin to fall backwards a little. She righted herself with a squawk of frustration and proceeded forward.

"Light," Sachiko reprimanded gently from where she sat on the sofa, looking exhausted. "Everybody does things at a different time. Please, try to remember that."

Soichiro and Sachiko Yagami had worried about their son from the very beginning. Oh, he was a wonderful child; he rarely cried, he caught on to things and learned faster than any baby either of them had ever seen before. But this was part of what caused the worry; even at age four, their son was showing signs of remarkable genius. Being both of average intelligence, the thought of a brilliant son both alarmed and intrigued them, and they had made an agreement to treat their children exactly the same; _no preferences. _

With a wail, Sayu fell forward and, with remarkable dexterity, Light leapt forward to catch her against his small chest. Sayu gurgled happily, tilting her face to look up at her brother who regarded her, unsmiling.

"Sayu." His voice was level, as if he were talking to an adult. Unlike most, his voice never raised in pitch just because he was addressing a baby or an animal. "Please keep practicing. You do not want to fall too much farther behind." She gaped at him, trying to comprehend his words, then laughed and pressed an open-mouthed baby kiss to his bottom lip and chin, laughing loudly even as he sat back, wiping the overly-sweet taste from his face with an expression of aversion on his appealing features. Wordlessly, he spun her around, directing her back towards her father.

Sachiko leaned down, one hand holding her belly (after two children, her stomach was no longer as shapely as it had been and, no matter how often Soichiro insisted that she was beautiful to him, she couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious), and pushed Light's fair brown hair from his eyes.

"You need a haircut again, honey," she hummed idly, before automatically glancing at his husband. "You too, Soichiro. Maybe you can get a father-son trim on Saturday, before Light starts Kindergarten in two weeks." Soichiro murmured a quiet consent, one hand catching his daughter around the middle and lifting her onto his lap, tickling her neck. She gave a shriek of mirth, giggling loudly and snuggling into her father's warm barrel chest. Sachiko smiled warmly; she loved her family so much.

There was a beep from the stove, causing everybody to start a little. "Oh!" Sachiko exclaimed cheerfully. The stove was finally hot enough; although they had upgraded from their tiny apartment to a small home, their possessions were not exactly top-notch and the stove particularly took a very long time to heat up.

"What are you making?" her husband asked, laying a hand on his wife's arm. Her breath caught as he looked at her with his dark eyes; although the few years they had been married had added some stoutness to his body and she already saw some premature graying of his hair, she found that even with the simplest of touches he could still put a rosy blush on her cheeks.

She curled her hand around his, and saw Light look away. She knew Light wasn't overly fond of her affectionate behavior with her husband, but Sayu, still in Soichiro's arms, gave a beaming grin. "I was going to make a Donburi bowl," she told him. "I feel very tired lately," she added, not wanting to complain, but to explain why her meals hadn't been as elaborate as they used to be. "I'll get back on track soon."

She was surprised when she felt warm lips press onto her left cheek. "You should rest," Soichiro told her. "You've been so busy lately; I'll cook dinner." Sachiko was surprised; although he had cooked for the family before, it was a very rare occurrence, mainly because whenever he was, Sachiko couldn't help but feel a little inept.

"A—alright," she responded, smiling a little. "Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"That's all right," her husband stood, gently depositing their daughter into her lap. "Light will help me, right?"

Light looked at his father, and then nodded. "Of course. I've seen you make Donburi before; I remember how it's done," he told his mother, and she felt somewhat more confident. _Of course Light remembers, _she reassured herself. _He is Light, after all. _Without speaking, her son handed her the television remote control.

"Isn't that drama you like on in a while?" he asked his mother. She blinked, and then grinned. It was just like him to remember something like this; even such minute details did not escape her son's notice.

"Yes, Light!" she leaned forward to kiss his head and he allowed it without so much as a grimace. "Thank you for reminding me." She was completely happy; her family was wonderful, her husband was _especially _wonderful; the sun was setting and she could see the vibrant streaks of orange from the window, and soon she would be watching her show ('Sekai de ichiban kimi ga suki!' , or 'I Love you Most in the World', with the ever-handsome Mikami Hiroshi to keep her attention). She debated on whether or not the show would be appropriate for Sayu's eyes, but figured it would be all right.

Settling down with her daughter, who was drowsy from so much exertion on walking back and forth, into the warmth of the sofa, Sachiko Yagami felt as if she had never been happier.

Soichiro Yagami, however, was at a loss.

"L—Light," he turned to his son. "What exactly goes _into _a Donburi bowl?" he felt foolish for having to ask, but he had never been comfortable with cooking. It wasn't so much a gender thing as it was a 'Soichiro Yagami can't cook a package of instant noodles to save his life, not because he hasn't been taught, but because he is completely, embarrassingly terrible at it' type of thing. He felt his son eyeing him warily, before the child made his way to the refrigerator, pulling the door open and removing a package of chicken strips, which he handed to his father. Soichiro stood in the center of the kitchen, feeling completely foolish, as his son wandered around, finding green onions, eggs, various containers of liquids, and some sugar. The rookie on the police team tilted his head in surprise as Light lifted the lid of the rice cooker, revealing about six cups of already perfectly cooked rice inside.

Light offered the man a strange smile. "Dad, you can crack and mix the eggs, can't you? Please be careful not to get the shell in the bowl." _Crack the eggs, _Soichiro repeated to himself. _No shell. Got it. _He did so nearly perfectly and felt proud of himself that he remembered to heavily wash his hands before removing the speck of shell with only a little poking around.

Light was dicing the onions using a small but obviously very sharp knife. Because he couldn't reach the counter, he had moved the cutting board to the dining room table instead, and on seeing this Soichiro felt his heart leap into his throat.

"Light, maybe you should let me do that…" the thought of Light cutting a finger made the father nervous. Light looked as if he wanted to argue, but instead shrugged. "Sure. Can you sit down?"

Soichiro did so and was handed the knife, the cutting board pushed in front of him. Light held his father's meaty hands with his own petite ones, guiding them. "That's right, dad," Light told him in much a similar way as Soichiro's professors in college had spoken; distant, superior. "Cut at an angle," Light explained. "Keep them all the same size." Soichiro felt bemused; just how smart, exactly, _was _his son? He remembered his wife hadn't made this particular dish in about two weeks, yet Light remembered the steps exactly…

Light stepped away and Soichiro stopped paying attention for a while, focused entirely on making the onions the same size and shape as Light's had been. He found it wasn't quite so hard if he focused on one detail at a time, instead of the dish as a whole. He was on the last scallion when he realized that there was a sizzling and a delicious warm smell behind him. He spun around, seeing Light at the stove with a pan full of the thin strips of meat, frying them on low heat. He was standing on the stool he often used to brush his teeth in the bathroom, barely at the right height, and was gently turning the chicken over with a fork.

Soichiro jumped to his feet. "Light!" he exclaimed, panicking. Light turned to face his father with calm golden-brown eyes.

"Yes, dad?"

"Don't use the stove! You'll be burned!" He quickly diced the last onion into much less perfect bits. "Look, I'll do that. Is there anything else…" he didn't want to say '_anything less dangerous for you to do' _in case it offended his son, but Light clearly knew what he meant.

"I'll measure and mix the last ingredients," he replied with a wary sigh. "Make sure to cut the chicken open a little once both sides are light brown; you won't know if they're done unless you check; they could easily be raw inside. Or you can just use the meat thermometer."

At the blank expression on his father's face, Light gave a patient smile, reaching into the cupboard and extracting a small metal device.

"Stick the pointy end into the thickest part of the biggest piece of meat. When the temperature reads "160 degrees Fahrenheit", you can take this pan off of the stove". Soichiro felt relieved; _numbers_, something he understood and excelled in. As if reading his mind, Light added "Cooking really is all about the numbers, dad; if you practice at it, you'll start to see a pattern." Soichiro pondered this as he gently flipped the tenders over. _That makes sense; it really is all numbers, if you think about it; measurements, time, amount, temperatures. _That thought boosted his confidence. _Maybe I can do this, after all. _

He paid more attention to his son now, who was once again seated at the table with several measuring cups, stirring in what looked like chicken stock into the eggs. Soichiro smiled fondly at the very small child. Light was a beautiful boy, with wide, round eyes that were an interesting color, hair much lighter than that of his parents and a brain of such caliber that sometimes his father felt dizzy just thinking about it. _Where did he _come_ from, _he thought to himself. _He's so different from anybody I've ever met, _especially_ from his mother and me. _And yet, in some ways, Light was already showing signs of being like his father. He worked very hard at everything he did, striving perfection. His son, even at the young age of four, showed strong traces of morals, of good behavior. _He's a good boy, _Soichiro thought. _I hope… no, I KNOW, he'll grow up to be a fine man. _Soichiro felt very proud of his family.

When he was convinced that they had been browned enough, he slipped the thermometer in, only to discover that they were a little _too _hot. _Oh, no… _He quickly removed the just-beginning-to-burn pieces from the stovetop.

"Place them in the saucepan I put by the stove," Light instructed without turning around. "You can add the onions, too, and this," he held up a bowl containing everything he had just mixed together. Soichiro hastened to do so, looking at the clock, surprised to see that little over a half hour had passed. _Cooking is tiring, _he marveled, dabbing at the sweat on his brow with a paper napkin. _No wonder Sachiko looks so tired lately… _though he would never say it to his wife, she really did look like she needed a break. He kept it to himself because he couldn't find a proper way to phrase it without it sounding like an insult, and all Soichiro wanted was for his loved ones to be happy.

Soichiro allowed Light to take care of everything in the saucepan, figuring that, if his son was going to be working with dangerous kitchen appliances, it would at least be when Soichiro was watching, so that he could possibly prevent any mishaps.

Light, uncomfortable with the watching, spoke. "Father, if you could take about two cups of rice into three of the deep soup bowls, and then bring those bowls to me, I would really appreciate it." The man did so, making sure to keep a close eye on Light the whole time, and felt rather pleased with himself as he helped Light spoon even amounts of the wonderful-smelling mixture over the rice in a rather pretty fashion. He helped Light set the table, feeling as if the worst was over; though he knew he'd be in charge of kitchen clean-up duty, he had done that often enough already to be comfortable with it.

Light went to fetch his mother and Sayu, who were both seated on the sofa, staring, transfixed, at the television set as the end credits rolled by to the tune of a rather generic ending theme. He felt faintly amused that Sayu's mouth had dropped open and the fourteen-month-old girl was looking every bit as shocked as his mother. He wondered if Sayu understood more about the world then she let on, and the thought intrigued him.

"Cliff-hanger ending?" he asked, smiling. She looked at her son. "You have _no idea,_" his mother responded, her voice breathy. "Ooh, I can't _believe _I have to wait another week to find out what happens!"

The three made their way to the table which was, admittedly, looking rather plain. When Sachiko cooked, she always decorated the table to the extent that it was aesthetically pleasing and appetite-raising. But between Light and Soichiro, the meal looked more purpose-suiting only, with nothing but silverware, drinks, and napkins to accompany the dish. Still, Sachiko gave a wide smile.

"It looks wonderful!" she exclaimed to her husband and son. "You two are so good to me." She gave Light a loving kiss on the crown of his head, then stood on tiptoes to kiss her husband's cheek, feeling amused at the barely-discernable blush that rose on his skin when she did so.

"Anything for my amazing wife," her husband responded warmly, and then laughed. "All that cooking made me hungry—Chef Light doesn't allow snacking while working!"

Sachiko laughed daintily before patting her son's back. "You go, Light," she teased. "A man after my own heart." Light grinned as he helped his mother strap a babbling Sayu into her highchair, watching as his father dropped about a cup of food onto the clean plastic tray in front of his youngest child. Sayu giggled and immediately dropped a fistful of egg on the floor.

After Soichiro found the old phonebook and placed it on Light's chair, bringing his son to the correct height to be able to eat at the Western-style table without kneeling (as he had been doing earlier while working at the table), the family and automatic pleasantries were exchanged before they dug into their meal with gusto. Though the chicken was a little burned and the onions were imperfect, all considered it a success.

After hungrily devouring the final grain of rice in her bowl, Sachiko sat back with a happy sigh. "That was wonderful," she complimented the two males, a sleepy grin on her young face. The thirty-five year old man dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, standing. "Looks like someone needs a bath," he commented, looking from his daughter, who resembled what he imagined somebody would look like if they had just survived an explosion in a chicken coop, to his son who, despite his careful eating habits, had several grains of rice stuck to his chin.

"I'll take care of bath duty if you take care of kitchen duty," Sachiko informed her husband after glancing at the wristwatch and noting that, _yikes_, bedtime was near. She felt it was important to keep her children on a careful schedule. Her husband agreed and it wasn't long before the bath was full and both her children were in the water, the ever-cheerful yet mischievous girl slapping at the water, sending arcs of it everywhere. Light handed her a plastic tiger, which she caused to dance around the rim of the tub. Always responsible, Light was already wetting a washcloth with soapy water that he handed to his mother.

Sachiko had always felt that bath time could be used as a bonding moment, and as she lathered her children with "rash-free, tear-free" soap, she told them about her day and asked about theirs. They talked about Light going into kindergarten, and about Sayu's upcoming doctor's appointment.

"We are going to be on our best behavior, right, Sayu?" she prompted, gently scraping at some dried egg that had crusted itself to her daughters knee cap. _How does she _always _manage to get food all over her? _Her mother thought, bemused. "We're not going to be throwing tantrums again, right?"

Sayu didn't respond, except to dump a plastic boat-full of water on her brother's head, giggling when he shot her a glare.

"Wow, what a night," Soichiro shook the cleaning cloths free of chicken bits into the trash can before tossing the cloth into the laundry pile as his wife stepped into the room, looking damp, tired, and happy. He fetched two glasses of wine before joining her on the sofa.

"I love you, you know?" he told her after a few minutes had passed in silence. She couldn't help the beam that crossed her face, and, leaning forward, pressed her lips to husband's in a wine-flavored kiss.

"I love you, as well," she breathed, her heart speeding up as she allowed him to press her down onto her back.

And, for a time, the Yagami family was perfectly content.

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_What, posting again, Darkbloodylegs?_

_Hee. This story is just too much fun to write. I felt that this chapter serves two purposes; to provide a break from last chapter's general "downer-ness", and to provide a compare/contrast to the lives of L and Light._


	5. Spaghetti, Rabbits, and an Office Shock

The thirteen-year-old boy, scrawny and awkward, in clothes that didn't quite fit his frame, was at the moment curled on a sunny windowsill, absently keeping one eye on his best friend, the other on the game in his hands. His eyes here half-lidded against the sunlight; he had been wearing goggles for so long that, when his face had grown too large for the cracked plastic swimwear, his eyes were unused to seeing the world without the blue tint.

Matt didn't particularly enjoy the sunlight, or anything to do with _outside _and _nature_, but, since Mello was here, Matt was as well. Sometimes he felt a little like a leech, the way he clung to the older boy (metaphorically speaking- moments of physical contact between the two boys had become few and far between), never feeling comfortable out of his presence, but Mello rarely seemed to mind.

Mello enjoyed the sunlight. It may even have been fair to say that Mello _was _sunlight- he was bright, and had a constant burning fire within him, and he dazzled. Even as Matt watched his long-time friend through the window, Mello flew wildly at the soccer ball, feet that had become too large for his body shooting at it and slamming it at just the correct angle to send it shooting up into the sky with ferocious pride, golden hair that often reminded Matt of a lion's mane snapped angrily in the momentum of his movements. Mello never held any part of himself back; he gave his entire being into whatever he was pursuing, be it studying or fighting or, at the moment, humiliating an older boy by the name of Cosmo in what was allegedly a one-on-one soccer practice.

Cosmo swore loudly—loudly enough for Matt to hear, anyway,- when the ball spun with frightening heat above his head, pinging into the net fast enough for the strings of the goal to stretch to the breaking point, trying to contain the leather, black-and-white ball. Sweating and full of fury, Cosmo stripped his shirt off to wipe at his face with the cotton, revealing a toned chest with dramatic muscles in all the right places, a tanned, dusky complexion, and a huge scar that covered his entire back diagonally.

_Of possible Greek heritage, _Matt's sharp brain categorized on seeing the boy. _Fifteen, no, sixteen years old. Obviously a sports player, and not one used to losing. _He analyzed the scar. _Old. A very old scar—possibly he received it in early childhood? Most likely a knife wound, probably almost killed him if it's deep enough to be vivid today. _Wammy's Kids were trained from the beginning for this—to take in, analyze, discover things about people just by a glance. It was a protection measure.

Matt frowned when he noticed that Mello had stopped moving, was merely standing in place, gasping for breath but attempting to control it; Matt knew Mello hated to pant—he thought it was an embarrassing sign of weakness. But Mello's eyes were not on the soccer ball as they normally would be. Instead, both blue eyes were, without a doubt, planted on the meaty chest of Cosmo. Sweat beaded down the handsome boy's clavicle, and Matt saw Mello's large Adam's apple bob in a swallow.

Surprise, and then something darker, came into Matt. _Ah. So that's how it is. _Of course, Matt _knew _about Mello—how could he not? After spending as much of every day as possible with the boy (heck, even his earliest memories held more Mello than anybody else), it was difficult _not _to have noticed, especially for such a genius as Matt.

Cosmo said something to Mello, who straightened and cloaked himself with his usual haughty airs, walking to retrieve the soccer ball from the net before turning around and sauntering back towards the main building of the school, hips swaying defiantly. Perhaps _too _defiantly. And Matt, game now forgotten, watched the model-like face of Cosmo soften a little, brown eyes following every confident sway of Mello's bony hips. Matt swallowed, disliking the feelings the whole brief display brought in him.

The door slammed open to Matt's left and the redhead stood as hot summer air filled the room. Mello, reeking of sweat, entered the building, sparing not even a glance at his best friend, knowing he'd follow, which Matt did, wordlessly. Mello's body was definitely that of a fourteen-year-old boy; some parts too large to fit everything else, a small smattering of acne, a voice that had just begun to lose the inconsistent cracking. And yet, if one looked at him without focusing, just letting their eyes wander, they could see the beginnings of a man; possibly it was in the proud jut of his chin, or in the aloof set of his brilliant eyes, but one could easily get the full picture of who Mello would become.

Matt, sneakered feet quiet on the linoleum floor, felt like a shadow to Mello. Skillful and gifted though he was, nobody's eyes found Matt's green ones—it was always Mello, always the blue-eyed teen that caught the attention. And Matt was fine with that; he didn't want any part of the whispers and head-shaking and occasional blushes that followed Mello almost as consistently as Matt did. Matt dwelled in the shadows because that was just how he was; his almost-solitude, his quiet world, it suited him fine. He had Mello, and he had his games, and he had his beloved science class and professor. Matt was a boy of few needs.

The two began making their way to the lunch hall, Mello hoping for the chocolate cake that Aqua had promised him would be there, Matt not really caring one way or the other about food, but knowing that if he didn't eat he'd have a difficult time focusing in class, which resumed in less than an hour.

Matt felt her before he saw her; Linda, standing behind him. He turned to look at her; she had grown rapidly since they had taken her in years ago, and with the love that was offered to her here, had become more outgoing, had made friends, had lost her inability to talk and almost lost her unusual accent.

"Hello," she called, waving, and Matt waved too, knowing that, like usual, Mello would ignore her. He always felt for her, just a little; perhaps it was because they were in a similar situation. Each loving Mello with a deep, quiet devotion, but knowing all along that they couldn't have him, that Mello could not _be _had, by anyone. It was as impossible a task as owning the sun.

The chairs at the table were lined evenly and neatly, so of course the blonde teen had to yank one backwards with a grating screech, plopping himself into it without grace or manners. Without looking he knew to duck Aqua's wooden spoon though he knew she would never actually _hurt _him. Matt seated himself too, offering Aqua a rare smile as a steaming plate of spaghetti was pushed in front of him. She smiled back, nudging him gently with a rounded, feminine hip before returning to the kitchen, no doubt in search of that layered chocolate cake for Mello.

"Hello, Matt," Professor Gansah sang tiredly as she slid into her chair, crossing her skinny ankles as she awaited her food.

"Hey," he spoke quietly, his voice sounding as if he didn't often use it, which was true. "How is the crossbreeding going?"

"Oh, wonderful!" she beamed, her smile, as always, a little too large and disconcerting, as if she was planning to eat the one she smiled at. "The rabbits were born last night and my first-year class noticed immediately the distribution and pattern of spots covering their fur was not as regular as the last breed…" she rambled, her hair escaping the loose bun to frizzily frame her long face and Matt listened, nodding eagerly and occasionally adding his own input. She was possibly the only person on campus, besides Mello himself, to be able to engage Matt in a conversation.

Stabbing a meatball from Matt's plate, she used it, as well as a couple of noodles, to demonstrate the transfer of genes from the original rabbit parent to the offspring. "This is a most unusual case of genetic mutation," she began, her impromptu DNA model sending out tiny splatters of sauce as she waved it around on her fork, "because—"

She never got to finish her sentence, since just then Near was there, dark eyes boring alarmingly into Matt's own, his face a little too close for comfort. Matt recoiled; Near didn't approach him unless it was significant, but the news was usually bad.

"You need to come to Roger's office," he addressed the two older boys while Mello glared with annoyance, busy cramming a vicious bite of chocolate cake into his awaiting mouth. "_Now_," Near added, his usual "robot" persona giving way, just a little, to urgency. This caught Mello's attention; Near _never _had emotions.

"Excuse me, Professor Gansah," Matt spoke politely to his favorite professor. "Can we continue this discussion later?" She waved him off, looking a little disappointed.

"Certainly, hon." She was the _only _one in the whole world who could call Matt endearments without a fist slamming into their jaw. "Can I…" she grinned sheepishly, and Matt slid his half-eaten plate of spaghetti in front of her. "Go right ahead." She did just that, slurping noodles with gusto.

He followed his two rivals (for Mello, as much as he was a friend, a lifeline, even, was still a rival to Matt's "becoming the next super detective") over the long distance to Roger's office without bothering to ask Near what was going on, knowing he wouldn't be getting a response anyway. He was admitted into the cool, dark building with the other two, but before he could enter the room where Roger usually stayed at his desk, he was stopped by a large, masked guard putting a hand to his chest.

"Stay here, son," the male's voice was deep, reprimanding, with a tiny hint of an accent to the words. Was it French? There were three guards in the lobby, all of whom Matt had never seen before. Two male, one female, all with masked faces. "One at a time," the accented man continued, the sternness in his voice not exactly "threatening", but ominous at the same time. Matt swallowed when he noticed that the man had a gun; he didn't _like _guns, not after that one night so many years ago where Mello, in an unusually revealing mood, had told Matt the choppy story of how he had ended up in Wammy's House. Though Matt would never repeat it, (his loyalty ran too deep for that), it had given him a permanent hatred of firearms.

"What's going on?" Matt muttered to Near, not expecting much of a response from the boy he had once been close with, but who had drifted apart over the years due to Mello's unfiltered hatred of him.

"I have no idea," came Near's reply, surprising Matt. "They told me to go get you two and not to talk to anybody else."

The female guard, slim and obviously very young and attractive, even under her black, bullet-proof uniform and thick black mask, used a metal-detecting wand to search Near for weapons.

"Empty your pockets," she told him as he stood still, arms raised as the wand passed over his back. He did so, handing her the only thing he had on him, a single set of dice. She patted him down thoroughly and Near appeared very uncomfortable with the whole process, but didn't once protest, before allowing him entrance into Roger's office.

"You, sit," the smaller of the two guards gestured at Matt. "You," he continued, his words very clipped and to-the-point, "Come here," he gestured to Mello, who bristled slightly at being ordered around until Matt touched his wrist, gently, with a fingertip as a reminder to _calm down, it's alright. _

The same process—pocket-emptying, detecting for metal, was repeated on Mello and then Matt, before the guards visibly relaxed a little. "Don't try anything," the woman warned them. "We are aware of your extensive training in capoeira, and we are able to fight you and win." The boys said nothing, and Matt stared at the clock on the wall. He was missing class now…

Exactly one full hour passed, the silence absolute, the guards unmoving in their standing position, before the male guard, the one without an accent, rapped sharply on the door.

"Time's up. You have exactly forty seconds to evacuate the room, Nate River, before we come in after you."

Near was out in thirty-two seconds, and Matt marveled at the use of the name. _Is that Near's real name? How do they know it? _And, even more disconcerting, _do they know mine? _

Near sat next to Matt on the uncomfortable chairs, his eyes wider than normal, and the tiniest hint of a shudder passed through the boy's very small body. Matt was shocked; when Near started showing this much emotion, something astoundingly serious was occurring.

Mello was allowed entrance in Roger's office, and the door was once again shut. Matt couldn't stay seated any longer, due to the increasingly uncomfortable state of his backside and so, watched by the guards (which was an alarming thing, due to the fact that he could not see any of their faces), Matt paced the room.

This time, it was not a full hour, but fifty minutes that passed before Mello exited the room, called under the name "Miheal Keehl", which shocked Matt—he knew it was correct. Blue eyes huge, Mello stared at Matt, who stared back, automatically searching his friend for any sign of being harmed. No, no—Mello looked exactly the same, except for his eyes; Matt had never seen such an emotion on Mello's eyes before. On shaking legs, Mello went to and sat in Matt's vacated chair. Feeling utterly alarmed now, Matt allowed himself to be ushered into Roger's very dark office.

"Mail Jeevas?" a woman's professional voice sounded in the pitch-black office, and Matt felt a cold female hand guiding him to a chair. Matt licked his dry lips as he allowed himself to be seated.

"Yes?"

"Do you solemnly swear to keep the proceedings of the events in this office silent, including in the court of law, on pain of death, so help you God?" her voice, though still professional, rang with familiarity as if she had repeated the words many times before.

Matt didn't like it, but found he couldn't do anything but agree. "Yes."

Without further ado, a single light was snapped on, revealing two figures in the room. A woman, dressed the same as the guards, stood behind the office desk, behind a masked person sat at the desk chair. No, not _sat_. _Crouched. _That posture… Matt's mind clicked. _Oh, God…_

"Hello, Matt." L's quiet voice echoed in Matt's mind.


	6. It could never work out between us

Halle waited, hand on hip, behind L's desk as Near sat and spoke to L, neither of them moving for the entire hour-long conversation and, when he was called out by Gevanni, he left, no words of parting spoken. She shook her head; he had always been a strange kid, even in a school of strange children.

Mello entered the room next, and her heart gave a funny little pound—of recognition, she figured. He had grown up nicely; from what she read from his profile, he was fourteen years old, but his eyes were much older.

She was unsurprised when said eyes clouded with fury and the boy flung himself at the desk, clearly intending to punch L in the face, or something along those lines. Halle was instantly there, as her training had taught her, catching his arms and forcing him onto the floor. She had sat on his back for the remainder of the fifty-minute meeting, restraining him, as his anger took quite a good percentage of that time to cool. She understood, of course; the kid had been abandoned before, and by L; the sudden return of L was, to the "anger management" (or so it had been written in his profile) boy, quite a bit more than he could handle at the moment.

Still, the message was finally conveyed, Mello was released, and by the time the third teenager was admitted into the room, Halle was in her original position, standing protectively behind L. She watched as Matt's intelligent green eyes instantly registered that the masked figure was his L, and she could practically see the gears firing off in his mind to comprehend the situation.

"Hello, Matt," L spoke, his voice warmer than Halle had ever heard it. She had been working for him since the beginning of the Kira case, which had begun earlier that year (the year being 2003).

Halle watched curiously as Matt's knees appeared unable to support his weight (which her eidetic memory supplying that it was 96 pounds total) and the boy sank quickly into the chair that Near had occupied during his time with the Great Detective L.

Ryuzaki jumped right into what he had come to tell the children.

"Matt, I believe that my life has a serious chance of ending soon."

The boy started at this, his eyebrows shooting up high on his forehead.

"W—why do you say that?"

"I am sure that you've heard and have been keeping track of the Kira killings, am I correct?"

Matt nodded. "Yes, of course! We all have, since you are—"

L interrupted. "We only have forty minutes, Matt. Actually, make that thirty-eight. We need to get right to the point. I think I've found Kira—I have him under constant surveillance, and he is imprisoned at the moment, of his own violation."

Matt cocked his head. "You believe he is going to kill you?" he had been keeping careful track of L's successes over the years, and if "Kira" was already in prison, it sounded like L pretty much had this taken care of.

"Yes," answered L shortly. "I'm 92% certain that he is going to kill me, if not this year, then within the next year or so."

Matt felt as if he were punched in the chest—when L was _that _certain, he was rarely wrong.

"Anyway," L continued, standing briefly to produce a manila envelope that he had clearly been sitting on, with "Matt" scrawled across the front in black marker, before handing Matt the envelope, "within this envelope is information regarding this case; it is one of three discs of this information in this world, the other two currently in the possession of Near and Mello. What I want you to do is to read this information, and then destroy both the disc and the computer you read it on within the next twenty-four hours."

"And on this disc is…" Matt's voice sounded weak to Halle; she noticed that he was definitely going pale in the face.

"I told you already;" L spoke impatiently, "information regarding this case. Meaning, _everything _to do with this case. Suspects, etcetera. I'm giving this to you because, as one of my potential successors, you're going to need it when I've died."

He did speak about it too matter-of-factly, Halle observed. No wonder Matt was looking vaguely sick.

Matt glanced at his watch. "Well, we still have thirty-five minutes left, so obviously there was something else you wanted to say."

"Yes," L replied, and Halle could tell by his voice that he was smiling. "I wanted to tell each of the three of you about a case I've been on—a different one to the each of you. So that my memory can pass on after my death."

_I wish he'd stop saying it so callously, _Halle thought to herself, noting the green tinge to Matt's cheeks. However, Matt sat up, looking interested.

"Really?"

"Yes," L replied with a smile. "You remember the 2001 Boston stabbings?"

Matt nodded eagerly; "I _knew _that you were the detective who solved it!"

"Smart boy," L smiled. "Well, it all started…"

Matt exited the room, seeking eye contact with Mello, who gave him a tiny smile of reassurance. He had been instructed to leave, concealing the envelope underneath his clothing, without turning back, going straight to the school's library. He had also been told that L would be leaving within the next hour, and not to look for him or he would be "shot on sight". He eyed the guards uneasily as he, flanked by Mello and Near, walked from the building, to the library, in search of an unfortunate computer that was destined not to survive the next twenty-four hours.

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_June 2003, Kanto, Japan_

The twenty-one year-old man blushed crimson as he examined his appearance in the hotel mirror. "I can't _believe _Halle agreed to go on a date with me!" he attempted to calm the fire on his cheeks by breathing slowly, evenly, through his nose. He spritzed on a small amount of aftershave and declared himself date-ready, before exiting the hotel and sliding into the car L had given him for the job. It was a modern, black car with tinted windows- much better than his shabby truck that he had bought himself when he had graduated college at the age of eighteen.

It wasn't a long drive to the hotel Halle was staying in—for obvious reasons, L had wanted his five "assistants" to stay close (but not close enough to be easy to track). She was waiting outside the building when he pulled up, looking in the opposite direction at the rather pretty sunset in the distance. He rolled his window down as he pulled next to her.

"Hey, pretty lady," he called, trying to keep his voice low and smooth, "want a ride?"

She turned sharply, both hands pulled into fists as if she was planning to pull him from the window and beat him into the pavement, then relaxed when she saw it was _him_.

"No thanks," she teased, confidently sliding into the passenger's seat. "I have a date."

Stephen Loud—currently under the alias "Gevanni", worked to keep his poker face on. She _was _pretty—no, not just pretty, but beautiful. She was shorter than he was, if only by an inch or so, but he was aware that she was at least a few years older than him. It didn't matter to him, but he knew that, if his brothers back home in America were ever to meet her, would tease him relentlessly for dating an "older woman".

They had worked together for several months with L on the Kira case, and he had, just the day before, had them sign a contract stating that if L were to die without placing Kira in jail, they would work with his successor until L was captured. Stephen had been happy at this, though he pretended not to care, because it almost guaranteed that he would get to work with Halle for a long time.

"So, hungry?" he asked her, admiring the way her red one-shoulder dress clung to her in just the right places, and the tanned, strong-looking shoulder that was revealed. She gathered her long, white-blonde hair in her hands, tossing it over that delectable-looking shoulder and gave him a bold smile.

"Hell yes," she replied.

"Any place you're dying to try in particular?" Stephen was crossing his fingers that she would say no, because he had just the place in his mind.

"Anything but sushi," she laughed. "Japan's a lovely country, but I'm kind of sick of all the fish."

Stephen could have breathed a sigh of relief; the place he had had his heart set on was an American-style Italian restaurant.

"Then have I got just the place for us!" he filled her in on the details and she listened avidly, nodding when he finished.

"Sounds perfect!"

The blue-eyed man felt himself slowly relaxing by degrees. He had been fairly successful with relationships in the past, possibly due to his handsome face and charming personality, and knew that if a first date started out well, it would usually end well.

It didn't take too long to reach the fairly fancy restaurant, and they were ushered to a dimly-lit table in the back. He pulled the seat out for her and she responded with a trilled "thanks!" He watched as she hooked her purse over her knee in the traditional anti-theft way; smart woman.

Chatter while they waited for their meal was light; unlike most people who met in work, they were unable to talk about their job—their lives depended on it. They talked about the weather, about their families (Stephen was fairly certain that she was lying at this point; he knew he was), about the movie they planned on seeing afterwards.

She nibbled on her appetizer bread and salad and smiled benignly at all the other couples in the restaurant; they all appeared fairly affluent; clearly it was not a restaurant for diners who didn't have serious money to spare.

Stephen began to panic when he couldn't think of anything further to say—it occurred to him that, perhaps, this wasn't the best idea; they couldn't speak of what they had in common; families, traditions, childhoods… those things heard by the wrong ears could cost them their lives. He decided to stick with generic interests instead.

"So," he shifted lightly in his seat, the better to look into her wonderful blue eyes. He vaguely wondered, seeing her brownish eyebrows, whether that was her natural coloring or just part of her disguise, but knew he'd probably never have the chance to ask. "I've heard that you're quite the singer."

She arched one of those brown eyebrows. "And just where did you hear this?"

Stephen smirked. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask that, but if she really wanted to know…

"You're not as quiet as you think you are in the office showers."

He awaited the expected blush, but was surprised when it never came; seemed like this lady was impossible to fluster. She swirled her drink with one hand and gave him a winning smile.

"And you, Mr. Gevanni, I was surprised to discover, have quite the acting ability."

He gave her a polite, if confused, smile.

"I must say, Halle, that I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't you know? I seem to recall hearing you speaking to Agent Rester about both gaining a promotion from L, and me being "all over you" on our _last date_, neither of which I can seem to recall. I could only assume you were putting on a performance."

Stephen practically choked on his drink. She had _heard _that? But that was just… _locker _room chat, with a decorated Agent he had only been trying to impress! Much to his shame, he felt his own cheeks beginning to heat. He coughed slightly more than necessary, looking away until the heat faded, before bringing his glass up in the air. The innocent-looking Halle clinked her glass to his with a pleasant "cheers!"

Halle looked over his shoulder. "Oh, look, our meals! I haven't had eggplant lasagna in so long, I'm really looking forward to it!"

The two stepped arm-in-arm out of the dark theatre, and Gevanni politely opened his car door up to the woman he had quickly discovered was made of steal. With all the charm and beauty in the world, he had been expecting only soft feminine grace; instead, he learned that Halle could not be made to blush; she gave as well as she got. His head was swimming a little, and he liked it.

Still, this smile she was giving now seemed genuine. A small dimple on her right cheek showed on her "true" smiles, he had noticed, and ever since that discovery, he had gone out of his way trying to make that dimple show. He found he was quite entranced by this lady.

"Well, that was quite a great performance, Mr. Gevanni!" she winked. "I must say, I've never been to Kabuki theatre before; it was most certainly… unusual!"

Gevanni held back a wince. He hadn't expected Kabuki to be so… so… he found he had no words to describe the performance they had watched. The performers certainly had talent, but it definitely hadn't been what he would mentally file as "good first date material."

The conversation lulled as he pulled up to her hotel, and he allowed his car to idle in the parking lot.

"Well, Halle… I had a great time!" he gave the smile that had made lesser women weak at the knees just to see but, as he had come to expect, Halle just raised an eyebrow.

"So did I! Thank you for asking me to join you!"

Stephen found himself regretting that he wasn't able to walk her to her hotel rooms; all of L's workers had been forbidden, by L himself, to be seen in each other's hotel security system video monitors, for safety reasons.

As Halle slid her seductive body from his car, she leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on Gevanni's nose.

"Stephen?"

"Yes?" he felt his heart pick up the pace when her lips touched his skin. He could smell her perfume very clearly with her being so close.

"It… could never work out between us."

And so saying, Halle sashayed to her hotel entrance, with a confused Gevanni staring after her for just a moment too long, and then driving away into the night.

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_DBL here! Wow; it's been a long time! I do have excuses—I went on a trip, my tonsils were removed, my pain meds convinced me I was a Powerpuff Girl, yada yada yada. The point is, I'm sorry it's been so long! Thank everybody for such amazing reviews! I love to read them all!_

_Oh, and tell me what you think about the Gevanni/Halle bit! It came from me musing whether or not they could be a pairing, and then deciding that Halle would probably eat him for breakfast with her usual bowl of nails. But I like to hear feedback!_

_(Oh, and if anybody's confused, I believe that the SPK originally worked for L, before Near "inherited" them, so that's why Halle and Gevanni and Rester consider L "boss")._


	7. Of Heels and Laundry

_April 1990_

"Misa, _hold still._" The irate woman gripped her daughter's chin with harsh fingernails, jerking the girl's face towards her as she licked a finger on her left hand, rubbing it sharply under the child's eye, smearing the brown eyeliner just a bit, creating a wing-tip.

The child held as still as she was able, standing on the toilet so that she would be tall enough for her mother to make-up her face. She was wearing a stiff, shimmery dress in a lavender color, which was said to bring out the green bits in her blue eyes.

Still, being only six years old, holding still was somewhat difficult. Eventually she twitched her nose and her mother hissed.

"You brat! Don't you know that you have to look perfect for church today?" the grip around her wrist tightened and Misa let out a squeak of pain, knowing without looking that the skin there was already bruising.

"Why, mama?" she finally asked as the last of the gloss was applied to her lips. But her mother didn't answer, and Misa was finally released to step off of the toilet. Hurrying to the mirror, she examined her reflection with a more critical eye than most children had for their own appearance.

_My nose is still too big, _she mused unhappily, _and my skin is a little blotchy, but daddy said that that would go away when I get older…_

She wasn't too pleased with the heavy makeup her mother had applied to her face; it made her look clownish, but she knew it wasn't wise to comment on this, and instead held still as her mother buckled shoes to her tiny feet.

"Heels, mama?" Misa had worn heels before; though they were rarely made in such a small size, the Amane's had had them specially created. "Misa must be the most beautiful," was what her parents both agreed on, and Misa, craving their attention, had gone along with it. She knew they wanted her to be beautiful; that meant that they loved her a lot, right?

Her father was there a second later, lifting the tiny girl in the fold of one meaty arm. There was no way they would let Misa walk to church today; she'd get her shoes dirty. Still, even as they exited the house into the warm spring breeze and began their brisk walk towards church, Misa was not happy.

Her father's grip around her middle was tight, too tight, as if he were holding her in a vice. Although Misa was very small for her age—unhealthily small—she was still a six-year-old, and as such her father quickly grew wary of holding her this way. She felt sweaty, and she sighed loudly.

Her mother glared at her. "Don't _sigh_, Misa! We are going to introduce you to the top agency owner in this part of Japan, Mr. Kinashita Yoshikazu, and it would be in your best interest to impress him."

Misa was surprised. She had done some modeling before—in television commercials and such, but had never actually been to an _agency. _And, of course, as her parents encouraged (or rather, insisted that she study modeling), of _course _she had heard of Kinashita. She instantly began feeling nervous, a bead of sweat dripping down the back of her neck.

"Mama," she asked timidly, trying not to bite her lip (her mother said it was a terrible habit that would eat away any lipstick she wore), "how do you know we're going to meet him?"

But Misa knew; of course she _knew. _Her mother's manipulations and connections… Misa had seen it all before. And as they walked into a church building she had never seen before or been into in her life, watching her mother fake an expression of reverence and piety, and as she was set down on her own feet to walk quietly on the soft carpeted floors, she felt nauseous.

It didn't take long to find him.

Dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, the professional-looking but alarmingly thin man grinned at her, sweeping her off her feet with a bark of loud laughter.

"_There _she is. There's the girl. I looked at the pictures and thought to myself, 'no six-year-old looks _that _childish and yet _so _adult at the same time, but clearly I was wrong!"

Misa found herself shaking slightly in his grip, though she knew better to fight away or to complain. Her parents beamed at the man as he escorted them to a pew in the center of the room, still carrying Misa. She tried to quell her own nausea and nervousness. She hadn't even spoken to the man and he was already treating her as if he owned her.

"You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Amane," the man complimented. "Absolutely lovely. I can see it now; sundresses, hats, and parasols for magazines like _Today. _Lingerie and lipstick for other magazines, like _The Evening Gentleman."_

Mr. Amane's smile froze on his face a bit. "L-lingerie, you say, sir?" he asked hesitatingly. "Misa is only six years old; I don't think—"

Mrs. Amane cut her husband off smoothly. "You know best, Mr. Kinashita!" she giggled. "I'm sure we can work something out for the right price."

The man laughed heartily, sounding disconcertingly like Santa Claus in April. "Of course we can; of _course _we can! With the right price, I always say, everybody's fantasies can come true!" he pinched Misa's face roughly in his fingers. "Hmm. From close up, she's not as pretty as she is in the pictures, eh? But no matter; no matter! We'll get her looking as beautiful as a peach!"

Both her parents nodded, dollar signs in their eyes, grins taking up their entire faces.

"We'll call her Misa-Misa!"

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_June 2004_

What appeared to be a four-foot high pile of dirty blue-and-green clothing with two legs sprouting out of the bottom of the stack shuffled its way through the crowded hallways of Wammy's House.

"Hey, Mells! Don't forget! That shirt is "_delicate cycle only," _the mocking voice of Chen rang from the crowd.

The laundry made a sound that could be interpreted for a growl. It stopped for a moment and the boisterous look on Chen's face fazed into one of fear, as if he was afraid the muddy socks at the top of the bundle would launch themselves from the stack and wrap their way around his throat.

They didn't, and after a threatening moment or two passed, the leggy bundle of fabric continued on its journey to the basement.

Mello hadn't _meant _to start the food fight—well, it was more like a food _riot_—in the cafeteria yesterday during lunch. He had only intended to fling some good-natured vanilla pudding at Matt's head with a plastic spoon. It was _vanilla_, anyway; why would anyone have wanted to eat it? How was _he _supposed to know that Matt wasn't as engrossed in his game as he seemed, and had the good sense to duck before the goo managed to strike him in the face?

Clearly, Vex (the muscular girl who happened to have been seated behind Matt when this seemingly harmless event occurred) did not appreciate the subtle humor of having cold, slimy pudding slide wetly down the nape of her neck.

By the time a hysterical Aqua had dragged Roger from his office, the cafeteria was barely recognizable.

"Who is responsible for this?" the old man had boomed, outraged. With a little struggle and a lot of grunting, Mello pushed his way up to the top of the stack of bodies that pinned him to the floor. With what looked like smashed peas dripping from his eyebrows and what _could _have been gravy smearing the entire left side of his face, he had slid his legs painfully out from underneath Vex.

"Mello did it, sir!" Vex was clearly livid.

Roger rolled his eyes heavenward and stooped to drag the fourteen-year-old boy to his feet.

"Come with me," was all he said.

And so _now _Mello was tasked with the Cruelest Punishment Roger had Ever Given (or so he called it; Matt had suggested that he was being melodramatic.); Mello had to wash every _single _stain out of each piece of clothing people had been wearing during the fight. It had been two days now and he wasn't even halfway finished!

Grumbling to himself, he dropped the pile onto the floor, moving to one of the many washing machines that dominated the otherwise nearly-empty room. It took quite a bit of strength to heft the mass of damp, heavy clothes to the nearest dryer, but he managed it.

He went to the other set of machines and repeated the process. But when he had gotten to the third and reached inside, the only thing his fist closed on was a skinny ankle.

"Gyaah!" the blonde screamed, dropping the wad of wet black clothes to the floor. "_Shit! _Near, what are you _doing _in there?"

Two black eyes blinked as the light from the room filled the dryer, and the small boy curled inside stifled a yawn.

"Hello," Near said, a pleasant lilt to his usually robotic tone. Then, slightly more irritated-sounding, "you didn't have to wake me up, you know."

Mello gaped at the younger boy for a minute, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find words for this situation.

"Near. You're _in_ the _dryer, _on _top _of a bunch of clothes that _I just cleaned, _and you've been _sleeping?"_

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "I like it in here. It's warm and dark and it smells nice."

"_It smells "nice" because I just washed all those clothes, you idiot!" _Mello's voice was rising, both in pitch and in volume. He was so incredulous that he forgot to be cool.

Near winced, covering his ears. "Don't shout." It was possible that it was because he had just woken up, but Near distinctly seemed to be… _pouting, _something Mello had never seen before. "I'm in a _metal box. _When you shout it just echoes."

Mello could take no more of this strangeness. Grabbing both ankles this time, he yanked backwards until the twelve-year-old slid from the machine and onto the pile of wet clothes with a loud _squelch. _Near winced and rubbed at his backside, looking up at Mello with his dark, unreadable eyes.

"Ouch." , was all he said.

"Great," Mello seethed, eyeing the wet clothes which seemed to be attracting dust bunnies and lint from the floor like a magnet. "Now I'm gonna have to wash these again."

Near frowned thoughtfully as he lifted a black dress out from underneath him, and he brushed some of the lint off the front.

"I can help you."

Wordlessly, the boy (though he had to stand on his tiptoes to do so) began placing the soiled black clothes back into the washing machine before measuring out the correct amount of soap to pour over the top.

Mello gaped at Near for a few more seconds, then shrugged. If the little freak wanted to help, who was Mello to stop him?

Mello returned to the blue clothes he had carried in earlier and, with a large container of stain remover, began the long and laborious process of cleaning every spot from the food-caked fabric. After what felt like hours, his back straining from being so hunched over, he finally finished.

When he stood and glanced around, cracking his spine with relief, he was astonished to see every washing machine and dryer lumbering away doing their duty, and a pile of neatly-folded clean clothes in the center of the floor. Near, who sat kneeling in the midst of the pile, was stacking the clothes around him as if creating some type of fortress. Mello was reminded of when they had been very young and L had taught them to make fortresses in the snow; it appeared that Near had perfected and even improved upon the fortress design.

At noticing Mello's attention on him, Near looked up with a strange smile on his lips. "It seems as if I have gotten a lot of work done," he commented, his voice back to its normal, emotionless tone. "The two of us seem to work very well as a team."

A thousand responses flitted through Mello's brain, but, feeling somewhat grudgingly grateful, he settled on the least rude.

"Yeah, whatever."

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_Howdy! DBL here! I'm starting to get burned out on this story, but I really don't want to let it drop. If anybody has any fresh ideas—things they want to see characters doing, for example—please make suggestions! I want to see this story through to the very end, but I'm beginning to run out of ideas! No character in DN is off-limits, so if you want to see a character show up, make suggestions! :)_


	8. A Winter Friend, and a Satisfied Death

_January 1998_

He was nineteen years old, living alone in an apartment of his College campus in Toyoake, Japan. Of course he was; his father, though disgusted that his son would move to such a "dinky, insignificant part of the country" for his schooling, was quite affluent and insisted on paying for his son's living quarters just the same. Keeping up appearances, and all that; the old Matsuda pride couldn't handle anybody thinking that his boy didn't have "the best" that money could buy.

And so, Touta Matsuda was alone, and because of this, he was lonely. Of course he was; he had never been on his own before. The Matsuda home (more of a mansion, really) up in Nagoya had always been full of people; his two little sisters with their bright eyes and silly games, his rather sickly but still kind-hearted mother, the staff his father hired to take care of the place.

Suddenly finding himself alone, living in a city he had never been to before, going to school with students who mistrusted him for his father's wealth… none of it sat well with the friendly young man. He felt himself sliding into more and more of a depressed funk every day.

Standing from his desk in the large apartment, he stretched his hands above his head, lacing his fingers to hear his knuckles crack. He had been studying for several hours; it was his dream to become a police officer, though his father disapproved, wishing for his son to join him in the Politian world. Hoping for a change of pace, he stepped outside to sift through the mailbox (which was attached to his wall just beside his door) for any mail. He never got bills; those were sent directly to his father. More often than not, the box was empty, as was the case this evening.

Sighing unhappily, Matsuda decided that, while he was outside in the brisk winter air anyway, he might as well take a brief walk. He was grateful that he was already wearing his coat and boots, so that he would not have to return inside to get it.

It was dark early this evening, as is always the case in winter time, and his boots left thick prints in the slush of snow on the stairs that he very carefully descended. The campus was empty, (with every sane student tucked inside in their shared-dorms, warm and noisy, bickering or laughing or eating their various meals.) Together, always _together_, but when Matsuda ever attempted to approach them, their eyes always narrowed, looking him up and down, taking note of his obviously expensive clothes, his "rich man" proud posture, and the instant dismissal in their eyes always sent Matsuda scuttling for the cover of his desk, and of silence.

Turning a corner, he stepped away from the rather mystical look of the snow-glittering courtyard, finding himself at the back of the school with the dumpsters and the poorer apartments. He was just about to finish his lap around the building before returning to the heat of his apartment… when a shrill _squeak _caught his attention. He stiffened. _Rats_? _Mice_?

The sound happened again, pained and tiny, echoing from the dumpsters. But it wasn't a rodent; Matsuda _knew _the sound of rodents. This was almost… _lyrical._

Curiosity getting the better of him, he turned towards the sound, taking tentative steps towards the stink of the dumpsters. The toe of his boots made a collision with a metal can and he automatically looked down… and stiffened in surprise what he saw.

In the crevice between two dumpsters, a dented metal cage rested on its side, next to the green beans can he had just kicked. But it wasn't the cage that caught his attention; it was the wet-looking bundle of feathers inside that did it. The thing inside opened a tiny black eye, looking at Matsuda, and after a brief pause, it squeaked another quiet note.

He awkwardly wriggled the metal cage out from between the dumpsters, careful not to jostle the bird inside. Then, gently rotating it until he found a small door, he slowly reached his hands inside, lifting the bird out in his cupped, gloved hands. It closed its eyes again and the young man found his heart increase its pace, hoping it wasn't dead. But no; even through his gloves he felt the throb of a tiny, speedy heart.

The bird was nearly frozen, and as Matsuda gently rolled it in his hands, examining it even as his breath formed cloudy puffs of chilly air around his face, he noticed that one of its wings was completely _wrong_, rotated at almost a ninety-degree angle.

Biting his lip, he opened up his coat and shirt, pressing the thing to his bare skin before sliding his clothes back over it. Looking around suspiciously, wondering what kind of _cruel _person could do this to a living thing; he noticed the curtains over one window flickering, as if someone had closed them very fast. Swallowing uncomfortably, he stood (noting with dismay that the snow had soaked past his clothes on his knees) he hastened around the corner, up the stairs, back to his apartment.

Resting the bird on an old sofa cushion, he seized his laptop, searching the internet with several requests; _canary: broken wing _and _how to rescue a freezing bird_. With the information he eventually found, there was only so much he could do. He worried his lip with his teeth as he wrapped the thing in a heated towel, mindful of the wing. He spent the rest of the evening on this research, finally deciding that seeing a specialist would be best, if the bird survived the night.

Class started early in the mornings for students, and as Matsuda (as usual) woke up a bit late and (as always) stumbled through the apartment cramming dry toast into his mouth and his boots on his feet to make up for lost time, he still took a few minutes to examine the bird. Though it didn't look like it'd be moving any time soon, in was most definitely still alive. Taking this as a sign of things going slightly better, he skidded across the grounds, the slush causing him to slide with every other step he took.

Flinging himself into the desk moments before the late bell began to ring, he panted for breath, knowing without looking that the other students were eyeing him with disgust. _Lazy rich boy, _he knew they thought. _Can't wake up on time. _

A folded piece of paper landed on his desk from behind and he looked around, curiously. A girl, seated behind him, gave him a little smile and wave. He felt surprised; nobody had done that for him since he joined this school two semesters ago. A dopey smile spread across his entire face, and he knew he was beaming because the girl gave a giggle, covering her mouth with her hand, her brown eyes crinkling endearingly.

Matsuda blushed and turned to face the correct way again, unfolding the note.

_Hi! _The note read, the kanji unusual in its spiky style. _I'm __Iijima Kinuko. I saw what you did with that bird yesterday; it was cool, I think. : )_

Matsuda felt his cheeks heat from pink to red in a matter of seconds. She thought he was _cool?_ He continued to read the note.

_My twin sister Miho is training to become a veterinary technician. If you want, you can bring the bird to our apartment after class today; she agreed to help._

Underneath this was her apartment number, and another smiling face.

His grin brighter than it had been in months, he quickly scrawled out a reply on the back of the page she had given him.

_Yes- that would be fantastic! Thank you and your twin so much! My name is Touta Matsuda, by the way._

She giggled as she read the note, and whispered "I know who _you _are!", never giving Matsuda a chance to lose his blush.

Sensei Shiori cleared her throat, irritably. "_If _Kinuko-san and Matsuda-san are _quite _finished…"

The class tittered, and both students looked down in embarrassment before everybody rose for the morning ritual. But something about today was different—perhaps it was the way Iijima smiled at Matsuda, or the plans he had for his new yellow companion, his little canary. But it seemed as if things were looking up.

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_November 5, 2004_

L Lawliet was not often stumped. Being a shrewd genius, a marvel of the world, really, not much slipped him by. And he _knew _Light was Kira; there was no other option that made sense in his mind; he _knew _it, and he could not deny it.

But he also could not _prove _it.

Holding The Notebook between his pinched thumbs and forefingers up for the Shinigami to examine, firing question after question off to the Death God, his mind was, as always, whirring faster than the fan on a computer. He enjoyed each bite of the cake Watari had brought for him, and allowed the warm steam from his cup of tea to bathe his face. He missed the comforts of his English home, and this was Watari's indirect way of comforting him, L believed.

He puzzled over Light's choice to stay with him; it just didn't _add up. _Light was _free;_there _was _no handcuff or jail cell keeping him in place. And yet here he sat as if he were still bound to the detective.

And what _really _puzzled him was the resuming of the Kira-style killing; the Killer Notebook was with _him, _in his very hands. The Shinigami was _here, _as well, answering every question L threw at her. And Light was always in L's eyesight. The fact that the deaths continued even despite all these circumstances was maddening. An itch he couldn't scratch, no matter how hard he tried.

He ate his way through box-full's of panda-shaped cookies, spouting his theories to his team, knowing that none of them could be 100% correct. He _hated _that, and it showed in the darkness of his voice.

And then, something went off in his brain.

"Misa Amane," he said through a mouthful of cookie, and he watched with great satisfaction as the back of Light Yagami stiffened.

"What did you say?" Light asked, his tone subtly forced.

"From the instant Amane became free…"

He watched as Light struggled for explanations, excuses, _denials. So it is true; Misa is somehow doing the killing for Light. _Again, he knew it; it was fact in his brain. But the lack of _proof…_

Hoping for a reaction from Light, L made a threatening suggestion to test the notebook out. To prolong his empty threat, he spoke to his computers.

"Watari; contact the heads of state…"

And then, suddenly, _it _happened.

There was a crash.

There was a silence.

And all the computer screens went blank.

_Watari! _L's mind screamed; there was only one thing that would make Watari destroy the computer system like that; the old man was dead.

Glaring at the blank screens, demanding his brain to throw itself into overtime, a thousand plans flashed into his mind. Somehow, had Misa done this? But no; Rem was no longer in the room. Of course! It was Rem!

"Everyone…" he spoke quickly, his lips flying over the words. "It's the Shinigami…!"

But it was too late. He felt a _throb _that rocked him to his core. Hands flying to his chest, he gasped for breath and, unable to keep his balance on his chair, felt himself crash to the floor. He barely felt the impact of his body on the tile; everything felt so vague. Everything, that is, except the _agony, _the _fire, _that was his chest. He felt as if his heart were bursting, one cell at a time.

Suddenly familiar arms were there; his head was cradled in gentle hands… _mockingly _gentle hands. A face was lowered over his, and through his quickly-clouding vision, he _saw _it. A smile, of triumph, and hatred… Light Yagami, showing his true colors, at last.

He cupped Light's shoulder in his own hand, perhaps as a way to confine him, or perhaps, just for something to hang onto in these unknown waters.

Despite his own impending death, L could have smiled. _I wasn't wrong, _he thought, in surprise and satisfaction. _But I… _images of his successor's faces flashed before his eyes. Light had no idea what he was in for.

L died then, in peace; the battle was half won, and he trusted those who would finish it for him.

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_DBL here! End of part one!_

_Thank you all for your wonderful comments! I read and love them all! And thank you, zaurora, for the Matsuda request! Seriously; requests help me out a ton. My school begins again on August 10, and it is my goal to complete the story before then! So expect more frequent chapters!_


	9. Departure

December 5, 2004

Roger's cell phone blinked and, with fear in his eyes, he stared at the number the text message was sent from. Although not saved in his contacts, he would recognize that number, that series of seven digits, anywhere. This could only mean one thing.  
>With dread in his heart and a light trembling in his fingers, he opened the message. The words took a long moment to sink into his brain, but when they finally did, they seemed to echo, over and over, in his mind.<br>_L is dead. L is dead. L is dead._

It was a strange Sunday morning, the day a piece of him died, Mello would later muse. A winter day that was _warm_? He wasn't sure why this was, but he knew that on 12/5/2004, he was in a _mood_. Mello had many moods, most of which usually ended with somebody's bloody nose or fat lip, but this one was particularly dark.  
>He had woken up grouchy, noticing Matt was doing a creepy staring thing at him again—Matt was sitting up in his own bed across the room from Mello's, not playing video games, not even daydreaming but openly staring at Mello's sleeping face. The instant the blue eyes fluttered open, the red-head hastily looked away, but too late; he had been caught. At Mello's aggravated questioning, he responded only with a shrug.<br>Mello hated Matt when he was like this. Hated when, for a moment, those green eyes became soft when he looked at Mello. When his hands lingered a little too long on Mello's shoulders, or when he gave a gentle smile Mello had never seen him use for anybody else. Mello didn't want things to change, but if Matt's increasingly obvious feelings continued to manifest themselves, Mello knew he'd eventually have to respond, one way… or another.  
>Mello disapproved of love. Love made you weak. It was altogether a better idea to ignore it, even on those occasions when Matt's little smiles gave him a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, as if he were about to pee his own pants. Damn Matt.<br>The contrary feeling had lasted throughout the day. Though he tended to ignore Near (he felt if he were to be "mature", he _had_ to ignore the kid), today was not a day for mature. He had pestered and taunted the little albino brat, growing more and more agitated when he failed to elicit a response until, irritated by Mello's bad behavior, Aqua had shooed him outside, claiming the room wasn't large enough for Mello and all of his hormones.  
>Starting up another informal soccer skirmish with Cosmo, even the handsome older boy had to admit that Mello was being too rough. Finally the boy snuck back inside, intent on finding something to do (preferably involving Near and Mello's fists making a connection) but before he was able to reach his target, a familiar voice called his name.<br>Looking up (and pushing at an annoying kid trying to cut in front of him), he saw Roger, looking most decidedly _un_-Roger-like. The old man gently took Mello's wrist, guiding him to his office. Roger called for Near over his shoulder and Mello started, surprised; he hadn't even known Near was behind him.

It was a perfectly ordinary day, one like any other day, or month, or year of Near's life. For him, few things changed and the days stacked up as evenly and identically as a tower of blue legos. As far as Near was concerned, few things in life really stuck out.  
>Slowly but methodically assembling a puzzle, he crouched on the tile floor beside the kitchen, listening to the familiar swish of Aqua's long skirts as she assembled breakfast. He vaguely recalled being invited to play by Linda, but had brushed the invitation off, as he always did.<br>Mello approached him, his beautiful face in a twisted scowl, and began to harangue Near with questions such as "Why the hell are you so damn _short_?" and with comments along the line of "You're not really an albino or your eyes would be red. Just go outside for once and… stop being so pale!" but Near brushed them all off, each word nothing more than a feather he mentally blew away; Mello's words had never been able to touch him if he chose not to let them.  
>He felt, but never bothered to look around and see, Mello eventually leave, but didn't put much stock into this; maybe he had just gotten bored. When the final piece in his puzzle was correctly in place, he stood to fetch another one.<br>On his way to his bedroom, a hand landed on his head, gently steering him towards Roger's office. The old man was also leading Mello by his wrist, and Near wordlessly stepped into the room, crouching on the floor to begin his puzzle once again.

"What is it, Roger?" curiosity had driven every ounce of hostility straight out of Mello's voice. The old man sat behind his desk with his head bowed, grief etched on every line of his thin face. Mello felt his heart thudding painfully against his breastbone; he honestly could not remember ever seeing such pain in the man's eyes before.  
>There was a long pause before Roger collected himself enough to speak without his voice trembling.<br>"L is dead."  
>Near felt his body stiffen, his black eyes shoot open to twice their normal size, but otherwise he made no outward reaction and instead remained in his crouch on the floor. This was not true for Mello, whose mouth dropped open wide enough to catch flies.<br>There was a long silence in the rooms, and then Mello's voice, high and shrill, pierced the air.  
>"<em>What<em>?"  
>He didn't wait for a response and instead began to pace in huge steps throughout the room, setting each foot down with so much force that Near scooted himself and his puzzle pieces to the nearest corner to avoid being stepped on.<br>Then, finally exerting enough self-control to keep his body in one spot (though he still trembled so lightly it appeared that his body gave off a slight vibration), he dragged his eyes back to Roger's face. Feigning callousness, he asked the most important question, the one that determined the '_where to from here'_.  
>"<em>So<em>, who did he choose? Is it me, or Near?" he didn't explain what he meant by this; he didn't have to.  
>Gnawing on his lip, Roger replied quietly "he made no choice; he died before it was decided. I think it would be best if the two of you…"<br>Near made a sound of agreement, as if working with Mello was something he'd like to do.  
>Understanding, and then fury burst in Mello's brain. <em>L didn't BOTHER to choose? After a LIFETIME of WORKING my ass off, he doesn't even CHOOSE?<em> He felt as if he could spit fire.  
>"No!" Seizing Roger's shirt in his fist, he dragged the man's face close to his own.<br>"I am _not_ working with Near! I don't like him; I'll _never_ like him… HE can be the next L; I'll find Kira on my own."  
>He released Roger's clothing and made quick strides towards the door.<br>"I'm leaving. I'm almost fifteen years old; I can take care of myself."  
>Hearing Roger cry his name behind him, he slammed the door behind himself.<p>

"I'm leaving." Going through their shared closet, Mello slowly removed article after article of clothing, laying it on the floor at his feet, before bending down to move his shoes off the closet floor.  
>Matt, still lying on his bed at after ten in the morning, (terribly lazy, really, Mello thought, not without some affection,) rolled his eyes.<br>"Oh, really? Why; did Near get you into trouble again? You only bring it on yourself, you know."  
>His sarcastic reaction irritated Mello, who was now on his hands and knees, dragging his suitcase out from underneath his bed.<br>"Fine. Don't believe me," he responded bitterly. "I'm leaving just the same."  
>Matt watched as Mello began cramming his shoes into his suitcase, followed by clothes. Books were tossed in, as were several bars of chocolate.<br>After quite a few minutes of this had passed, Matt began feeling the beginnings of alarm prickle throughout his system. Mello had never gone _this_ far in one of his tantrums… Not to mention, he was feeling some pretty sickening déjà vu; watching Mello pack with such a determined look on his face… it reminded Matt of a certain night, many years ago, with somebody else he loved.  
>Finally Matt spoke.<br>"Mells, what is it? Why are you so…" he struggled for the right word, but discovered that there was none for this situation.  
>Mello took forever to turn and look at Matt, and when he did, Matt felt his breath catch in his throat. Mello's expression was dark, blazing, furious, even, but still there were most definitely some unshed tears shining away in his remarkable eyes.<br>"L is dead." Mello's voice was harsh, as if he were struggling mightily to keep the sobs from escaping his lips. "L is dead and Near is the new L."  
>The words sunk like a rock into the pit of Matt's stomach and he gaped at Mello, wide-eyed.<br>"Oh, Mells…" he began, but was interrupted.  
>"So I'm leaving. I'm going to catch Kira myself."<br>Mello began rolling his stuffed suitcase towards the door, and Matt threw himself off of his own bed, unable to think or even consider the consequences of his actions, his arms were around Mello's neck and he was crushing the taller boy to his own body, practically squeezing him breathless.  
>"Don't go." His words were muffled in Mello's shirt. "Not without me."<br>Mello stood stiffly, eyes open wide, unsure how to react.  
>Matt pulled Mello's face down, brought his mouth up to the boy he loved the most. They had never kissed before, and Matt felt very clumsy, but his heart was hammering in his chest and he could feel Mello's own heart against his skin, and he just had to…<br>For just a second, Mello's mouth moved against Matt's, pressing back with more force than probably necessary, though his hands remained awkwardly by his sides. Then he was pushing Matt away.  
>He didn't say anything, though he knew his face was burning, as he turned to collect his suitcase and continue out the door. Matt's voice was hollow now, desperate.<br>"Come back for me?" the request was more of a plea, begging even. A dying request.  
>One tear, followed by another and, more rapidly, a third, dripped down the blonde's face, though when he spoke, his words were filled with a false bravado, a confidence he didn't feel. He refused to turn around; nobody would ever see Miheal Kheel cry.<br>"Maybe."  
>And then the door was closed.<br>He was gone.

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_Woo! Is it just me, or is this story definitely sliding more towards the angst spectrum than the fluff spectrum? Not to worry; the next chapter definitely contains some fluff (AND it'll be posted tomorrow, so watch out for it!)_

_By the way, if the guy/guy kissing bothers you, don't worry—I don't plan on anything BUT kissing in this story. It'll probably happen one more time before this story is over, but I won't write any graphic sex or anything. ^^; _

_This was written in response to nikkijordan's request that "i think u shld do one for when m, m, and n find out that l died". Thank you for the request! If you or anybody else wishes to make a request, please do so! They help me out a ton!_

_I love reviews._


	10. Of rosaries and names

_February 14, 2005_

The man's eyes slowly raked up and down Mello's body, a grin spreading across his flabby face.

"You're even prettier than they said you were. Come on in; this is going to be fun."

Expressionless and silent, the fifteen-year-old boy stepped into the threshold of the lavishly-furnished apartment.

"Can I get you something to drink?" the robe-clad man held up a wine glass, shooting a grin at Mello. Still silent, Mello nodded and, when the glass filled with deep red liquid was placed in his hand, Mello gave it no more than a cursory sniff before tossing it back in several hurried gulps.

The man settled on the sofa next to Mello, tossing one arm casually around the boy's shoulders.

"Not exactly talkative, are you? Guess that's not _necessary; _there are always better things that can be done with that mouth of yours."

When Mello made no attempt at a response, the man gave a grin and tipped his head forward, sealing Mello's mouth in a kiss.

Tightly shutting his eyes, Mello sat as stiff as a board, not even breathing in the man's foul scent as the man attempted to plunder his mouth.

Growing frustrated, the man sat back.

"Kid, you're going to have to respond a little. Candy said that _you _were the Valentine package; try to act like it, huh?"

Moving back to the teenage boy, the man placed his hand on Mello's chest, stroking his skin through the leather top Candy had given Mello. A rosary dangling from around the man's neck swung forward, catching Mello in the cheek before the man's mouth was once again sealed over Mello's.

Leaning forward and pressing Mello back into the richly plush sofa, the man leaned heavily against Mello, drawing Mello's tongue into his mouth and sucking gently on the tip.

Mello opened his mouth wider and the man grinned—_finally, a response_—before letting out a sharp scream. He reared on his backside, staring at the dagger hilt that protruded from his abdomen in astonishment before rounding his wide eyes back on Mello.

"You…!"

The man lunged towards Mello, his ham-like hands shooting for the boy's delicate throat, and Mello used the man's momentum to kick the man sharply in the spot where the dagger protruded with both feet, causing the man's eyes to roll back in his head and a high-pitched squeak to emanate from his lips as he fell from the couch onto the floor, shaking the ground with its thud.

Leaping atop the man, Mello sneered even as he pulled a roll of piano wire from his clothes. The man's pupils dilated fearfully, already knowing what the outcome of this situation would be.

`.`.`.`.

Several hours passed before Mello stepped from the apartment, past the two burly bodyguards who stood, oblivious, outside the door, identical leers on their faces.

"Boss give it to you good?" the taller of the two asked. Mello gave the man no more response but an intense stare before faking a limp down the hallway, his black duffle bag swinging heavily from his arm. It was imperative the guards believe that the "boss" wasn't emerging from his rooms because he was spent after a long session of kinky Valentine "fun", instead of the _real _reason, as long as possible.

Exiting the building where a taxi rumbled, waiting for him, Mello pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number.

"Hey, kid. That you?" the husky voice of a woman came through the speakers.

"Yeah, Candy," Mello replied. "Hey."

The woman gave a long pause, and Mello heard the inhalation of cigarette smoke as she took a long, contemplative drag.

"You ok, hon?" her concern was genuine, whether or not she wanted it to be. "I know it's rough, especially the first few times."

Mello sighed. She had no idea…

"No, I'm not ok." Here he began to spin another of the many lies he had told since coming into America. "This was too much for me; I'm done with the 'hooker' business. I'm not coming back—I'm going back to my parents in Louisiana."

There was a long pause as Candy seemed to think of the right thing to say.

"You'll be missed, kid, but this is probably for the best, for you anyway. Go be a kid, ok? Go play on a swing set or some shit like that."

Mello smiled. "Thanks, Candy." Faking the tears in his voice, he gave the duffle bag on his lap a pat. "I appreciate everything you've done for me."

Few more words were spoken before Mello closed the phone and, waiting for the taxi driver to make a sharp left turn, he tossed the piece of plastic out the window.

Eyeing his mental checklist, Mello could have given a relieved smirk. After "find the mafia headquarters" and "find the mob boss", item three on the list, "_behead the mob boss", _could now be crossed off.

"Where to, Mello?" the beefy driver asked in his low growl of a voice.

"To headquarters, Rod. There's going to be a lot of changes around here." replied the youngest Mob Boss Chicago had ever seen, fiddling with the somewhat bloody rosary that dangled from his neck.

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_October 8, 2004_

Dressed in a warm-looking pea-coat and a fashionably tilted, matching hat, Wedy grinned, flashing her accomplice a wink. Then, without further ado her mouth was opened in a piercing alarm of a scream.

Aiber cringed from where he lay sprawled on the ground, his limbs carefully bent at awkward, unnatural angles, one knee crushed under his chest to make himself appear shorter (he was, after all, five inches and fifteen pounds too big for this role), his cheek pressed into the filthy pavement. _Parbleu_, but she was _loud_. Even the strands of the too-hot, scratchy black wig he wore could not protect his ears from the assault of her howls.

He had been there for a while, holding completely still, waiting for the _thunk _that signified people were about to look over the railing. Soichiro was several floors up and had obviously just dropped the black bag of heavy junk out the window. That must mean Matsuda was safe.

Opening her mouth even wider, Wedy howled. _Merde; why is she over-acting so much? _He was irritated; if only Matsuda was a _woman! _Then it would be he who stood screaming, not this thief-woman. She was going to get them all caught.

"I heard a _noise_!" she was jabbering in her (admittedly decent) Japanese, "He must be _dead_! SOMEBODY call an ambulance!"

He felt the tar underneath his face vibrating, obviously from the traffic a few yards away. _This role is terrible._

It took less time than it should have for the ambulance to reach him. Through slitted eyes he watched Wedy slip into the trees, no doubt in search of the stolen ambulance she had parked a few blocks away. _Who scripted this_? The disgruntled man griped to himself. He was a professional con-man; had L bothered to consult him, he could have come up with a much better plan, timing and all.

A person stepped to his side, turning his back to the building the Yotsuba group was inside, shielding Aiber's face from the murderous crowd inside. If they had even the smallest inkling that this was forged…

Cold hands gripped his face, turning it on his side. Aiber opened his blue eyes fully, giving Light a smirk. "Nice outfit", he whispered. Light's face clouded into a scowl, and Aiber held back a chuckle; L was fully dressed up in a medic's garb, box-hat and all, and he was obviously not too happy about it.

"He's dead!" Light announced loudly, with perhaps a little too much relish to his voice. "Somebody bring a body bag, stat!"

_And why does it have to be 'stat'? _Aiber critiqued, with the passion of a director tweaking a scene in his prized movie. _I'm "dead"; it's not like I'm _going _anywhere._

The somebody, improperly carrying the black bag slung over his shoulder, was L, dressed identically to Light. Not daring to insult his employer, Aiber kept his smirk to himself.

He felt the two men force his feet into the black plastic bag, gently hoisting him to slip it underneath his entire body before tucking it over his face and zipping it completely closed, before he felt the two men lift his body onto a sort of wheeled cart. The cart began to move at a slight upturned angle, obviously going up the ramp into the vehicle.

He held as still as he was able, hearing the mumbled voices of the Yotsuba group nearby. Though the thick black plastic was too dense for him to be able to hear their words, he registered the relief in their tone. _Good. Despite its multiple flaws, they believed it._

But he couldn't hold still for long. The cloying plastic, the pressing darkness… he was brought back to memories of his childhood, where his psychotic mother would wake him by forcing a pillow over his face and eyes, pressing it down so hard that he thought, for sure, he would suffocate. Unable to help himself, he gave a violent thrash, his fingernails scrabbling at the plastic.

"Hold _still_," he heard Light mumble under his breath. "Yotsuba's leaving, but they could turn back at any time…"

Aiber did his best, feeling sweat trickle down his face. Fear, primal _fear, _gnawed at his stomach. God, he couldn't _do _this…

The cart stilled and Aiber heard the ambulance doors _shoosh _closed, felt the vehicle start to move, before he felt hands above his face, gripping the fabric and tearing it in one swift move.

"Wedy," he heard L chide. "You didn't need to destroy the body bag. You could have easily unzipped it."

She ignored her boss, as Aiber knew she would. Gathering his face in her small, glove-clad hands, she raised her sunglasses away from her eyes and nested them up in her hair so that she could bring her face close to Aiber's, scrutinizing him.

"What's wrong with you?" was all she asked, more curious than accusatory.

Aiber could only pant wildly, his breath sending her hair flying in multiple directions. She looked his face over sternly with her brown eyes—Aiber had never seen her eyes without her sunglasses before, Aiber noticed benignly. His heart was thudding so loudly against his chest that he _knew _she could hear it.

Finally she shrugged, resettling her trademark sunglasses over those heavy-lidded brown eyes, but not before Aiber saw something in them that he had never seen before in this seemingly cold woman; concern. This shocked him so much that he forgot to be afraid.

"I need to leave now, don't I?" she asked L, who nodded.

"If you would please hack into the Yotsuba meeting quarters, like we discussed, and—"

"Yes, yes," Wedy interrupted impatiently. "Give you a call. Got it."

"And then _don't forget_ to come back to headquarters," L reminded her sternly, as if he had never been interrupted. "We are _all _staying there tonight; it's too dangerous for you to be seen around here for a while."

Looking unhappy but resigned, she nodded. Waiting for Watari to pull over to where her beast of a motorcycle gleamed in the otherwise empty parking lot of a random grocery store, Aiber watched the woman leap from the ambulance with cat-like grace, leaving her disguise-coat and hat behind and clad in nothing but her preferred skintight black leather. He watched as she mounted the motorcycle before the doors were closed once again and the ambulance began making its journey back to headquarters.

_Bonne chance, Wedy, _Aiber silently thought out to her.

`.`.`.`.

She heard a knock at her bedroom door and, expertly tucking the blue towel's ends until it formed a perfect turban on her damp hair, she approached the solid block of oak, opening the oiled door without a creak.

"A-Aiber?" She was startled; having expected L (or at least Watari) bearing news of tomorrow's work plans. She hadn't expected the blonde con-man to just boldly show up at her bedroom in the middle of the night.

He smiled at her, his pale blue eyes softening as he took her in, looking her up and down before he began laughing.

"Sheep pajamas? _Sheep _pajamas? I—" he wheezed for breath between hearty guffaws of laughter. "Y—you don't strike me as the "cuddly jammies" type, Wedy. I guess I was expecting leather lingerie or something."

Glaring, she hastily began to shut the door in his face, but he moved his bare foot to catch it in his tracks.

"Ow."

"What do you _want_?" She demanded, irritated.

Instead of replying, he forcefully pushed her door open all the way, striding in as if he owned the rooms.

"Hey!" she protested loudly, even as he sat himself on her mattress, bouncing a little.

"They gave you a bigger bed than I got. How is _that _fair?"

He watched with interest as her usually stoic face turned white, then red with rage. Wow; for a thief-slash-sometimes-spy, she was awfully transparent.

"G—g—_get out of my room!_" she sputtered, enraged, hands planted firmly on her sheep-pajama-clad hips.

He looked at her quizzically, a confused expression on his ruggedly-handsome face.

Wait. Had Wedy just thought of him as _ruggedly handsome? _No. No way, that was just the sleep-deprivation talking.

"Why?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "I just want to talk."

She seemed to struggle for the right words to say, before she composed herself. Padding to her bathroom in her fuzzy blue slippers, she grabbed a wide-toothed comb from the sink counter. Brandishing it with a stern expression on her face, she attempted to explain her unusually frustrated state.

"Where _I _come from, people don't just _barge _into woman's bedrooms in the middle of the night."

She tugged off the towel and, returning to her bathroom where she stood in front of her mirror, viciously combed her way through her mane of fair hair.

"Where _do _you come from, anyway?" he asked curiously, watching her slowly turn the tangled, damp mop into a nicer, damp length of streaky blonde strands.

"Not telling. I'm a _thief, _idiot; I can't give out things like that. Get out of my room!" she dabbed moisturizer on her cheeks, squeezed toothpaste on a travel toothbrush and stuck it in her mouth.

"Want to know where _I'm _from?" he teased, turning on his full-wattage con-man charm while crinkling his eyes.

"No." Clearly she was immune; she spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink in a deridingly un-ladylike fashion. Then she smirked in her teasing fashion.

"As if it wasn't obvious, _Thierry Morrello _from _Dreux, France._"

He felt absolutely floored, as if he had been ran over by a steamroll.

"H—how did you…"

"I have my ways," she grinned wickedly as she sat on the edge of the bathtub and began applying lotion to the bottoms of her feet.

"Then that's not fair; you _have _to give me something about you. A name, a place of birth…"

"No."

This conversation was going nowhere. Aiber sat up and fixed his eyes on her.

"Look," he told her, seriously; the tone must have been obvious because she set the bottle of lotion down and turned to look him in the eye.

"I just wanted to say thank you," he smiled at her. "You know, for saving me from the Evils of the Body Bag." He allowed some self-deprecating humor to enter his serious voice.

Her eyes softened and Aiber was once again reminded how exotic they looked against her blonde hair. He stood and began walking towards her door, but she stopped him by speaking.

"You're not the only one afraid of things," she told him, and the raw honesty in her usually emotionless voice touched him, a little.

Re-inserting her feet into those slippers, she walked him to the door, holding it open for him.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The door was closed gently behind him, but just as he started to head back towards the elevator, it opened again. Before he had time to turn around, she spoke, quickly but very quietly.

"My name is Mary."

Aiber grinned, even as the door closed with a loud _click._

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_DBL here! Wow, this began dark. I know this chapter is longer than the others have been, but I couldn't find a way to make it shorter._


	11. In the dark of the night

_March 2005_

His head arched back and his small, puckered mouth opened with a loud cacophony of coughing. Shoulders heaving and tiny body trembling, Near awkwardly rolled his way from his bed, eyes streaming, he padded through the hall wearing only one sock with his white pajamas, approaching the nearby toilet with only one thought in mind—get everything _inside _his body _out._

Bracing his hands on the cold porcelain he heaved, hacking, eyes streaming, vomiting painfully. It felt as if his stomach itself was trying to escape his mouth.

Behind him, he heard a familiar voice.

"_Shit._"

Hands cupped the sides of Near's face, pulling his hair away from his sweaty cheeks, getting it out of his eyes. He shuddered where he knelt on the cold tile floor, unable to stop gagging into the bowl. He felt those cool fingers gather his hair up, heard the person behind him rummage through a nearby drawer until the person found what he was looking for, and used the rubber band to pile Near's hair into a messy, short ponytail.

Utterly spent and exhausted, Near slumped to the floor, leaning against the side of a bath tub. He closed his eyes, and heard Matt swear again.

"_Jeezus, _Near; what's wrong?" Near's only answer was a groan, and he somehow knew without looking that Matt was pinching the skin between his own eyebrows, as he always did when he was feeling stressed.

Matt shoveled his noodley arms underneath Near's body, hoisting the fourteen-year-old boy up with some difficulty. Near's black eyes flew open at that.

"Just put me down, Matt; if I'm going to die, it may as well be here."

Matt rolled his eyes.

"You're not dying. Stop being so dramatic—it's just the flu."

"Are you certain?" Near questioned, noticing how hoarse his voice sounded, how weak his body felt even as he loosely knotted his arms around Matt's neck. "Because I'm certain that this is what death feels like."

Matt didn't say anything, just carried Near down the row of sinks with slow, burdened steps until he reached the sink where Near kept his things.

"You'll feel better once you've brushed your teeth."

Near doubted this statement, but didn't protest as Matt set his feet down on the floor, handed him his toothbrush and a bottle of toothpaste, and helpfully turned the water on for him. Though his movements felt sluggish, he did as he was bade, rinsing and swishing the awful vomit taste from his mouth.

"Apparently you were correct," Near informed Matt as the last of the water swirled down the drain. "I do feel minutely better. What's next?"

Matt looked confused. "Next?"

"Well—what else am I supposed to do that makes this better?"

The older boy stared at him briefly. "Haven't you ever been sick before, Near?"

"No," replied Near, his calm, cool tone gone as he wiped away the natural tears that always spring up when one vomits, using a tissue. "It seems as if my minimal interaction with people hasn't given me much chance to harbor any germs or illnesses."

Matt sucked in a breath, even as he tugged one of Near's arms over his own shoulder, steering the wobbly teenager back to his own bedroom. "Yeah, and I bet your immune system's crap because of that, too."

He noticed the fact that Near was wearing only one sock.

"I don't think I've ever seen your bare feet before," he commented mildly as they maneuvered their way through the dark, empty hallway, slowly shuffling back to Near's bedroom.

Near frowned at this. "I didn't have time to fix it before I needed to vomit, and I suppose I was tossing and turning in my sleep; it must be tangled up in my sheets."

Back in Near's bedroom, Matt flicked on the light, which caused both boys to wince. The bed looked slightly as if a war had been fought in it; the pillow had been flung across the room, the sheets were twisted into knots, and the comforter was completely bunched at the opposite end of the bed. Matt touched the bed, noticing how damp the sheets were; Near must have been sweating a lot.

"Near, you sit down here," Matt instructed, pulling the wooden chair out from underneath the desk. Too weak to argue, the cotton-haired boy did as he was told, tucking one leg underneath him, his own foot cupping his behind, his other leg left to dangle off the chair entirely like the tail of a cat.

Grumbling something underneath his breath that sounded vaguely like "I'm not Mary Poppins, you know," Matt stripped the bed of its sheets, balling the fabric up and tossing them into Near's hamper, before messily smoothing a fresh set of sheets, found in Near's closet, over the mattress.

"You." He turned to Near, tossing the sock he had discovered mixed in with the sheets to the boy on the chair. "Change your clothes. You have puke down your shirt." Near stared uncomprehendingly at Matt, who noticed the boy's usually dull eyes growing shiny with fever. _Dammit… did he have to do everything_?

Snatching an identical set of white pajamas from the closet, Matt strode to Near and none-too-gently yanked the boy's shirt over his head, absentmindedly observing just how small Near's chest was, each rib prominent enough to have its own shadow against Near's extremely pale skin.

Tugging the clean shirt over Near's head, he tossed Near the bottom's to the pajama set.

"You do the rest. I'm getting some stuff."

Feeling as if he were in a hazy trance, Near complied, before sinking to the floor, no longer crouching, just panting with small, wheezing breaths, feeling absolutely wretched.

It seemed to take Matt forever to return, armed with a hot water bottle, a cool forehead compress, and several packets of Paracetamol and a bottled water. He stopped when he saw Near's unusual position, curled on the floor and mumbling quietly to himself.

_Now he's delirious?_! Matt felt frustrated; all he had wanted to do was use the toilet before going back to bed, not end up playing nanny to a sweaty, undersized child.

Using one arm to sweep Near into a sitting position, Matt tipped several pills from the Paracetamol packet into the child's mouth before holding the plastic water bottle to Near's lips, encouraging Near to swallow, which he did after only a moment's hesitation. Then, boosting Near up on top of the bed, Matt gently covered the boy up with his blankets, laying the compress on Near's forehead and setting aside the hot water bottle for later—in case it became necessary.

He was at the door and flicking off the light switch when Near's weak croak of a voice stopped him.

"D—don't leave me…"

Matt stopped, cold, in his tracks, flashing back to the words he had uttered to Mello four months ago. _Don't leave me, _said in much the same tone of desperation and loss.

Spinning on his bare foot, Matt made a 180 degree turn and found himself slipping into Near's bed beside the boy. Feeling awkward and very foolish, he rolled onto his side, away from Near, and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. _ If I get sick because of this,_ he thought to himself, feeling very grouchy, _I'm going to be so pissed…_

He felt himself start to slip away, when he heard a whisper, so quiet it could have been his sleepy imagination playing tricks on him.

"_Thank you._"

`.`.`.`.

He awoke when the beginnings of the springtime morning sunlight began to shine through the bedroom curtains, acutely aware of something very warm pressed into his side. Near was tucked underneath Matt's arm, his face pressed into Matt's ribcage, his warm breath heating Matt's skin.

Running his hand along Near's forehead, Matt felt relieved; the fever had broke; it seemed as if Near was going to be alright.

Matt was surprised at how light he felt inside; it seemed as if the great, Mello-sized wound in his heart had, overnight, begun to heal. Just a tiny bit.

Slipping out of Near's bed and stumbling to his own bedroom, he smiled, just a little. Maybe Near wouldn't be so bad to have as a friend, after all.

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Leathery black wings outstretched to their fullest extent, the Shinigami made his way through the sky. Even being as large as he was, he was still whisper-quiet.

No human would look up as the god of death passed them by overhead; they would feel no chill of Presence, no "fingernails on a chalkboard" sound of fear, no rising of the hairs on the back of their necks. Nothing so great as that; no matter what their fiction professed; nobody could tell when Death itself was looking at them.

And look he did; he had never in his life of hundreds of years found anything so fascinating as a human. Pressing his face to windows, he observed. There was always something brewing in the life of a mortal.

Tokuda Naizen had begun an affair behind his wife's back—with another man. Young Nobunaga Tsurayuki was being bullied at school and, instead of telling on the bullies, he resorted to carving out his feelings into his skin with knife blades. Asanuma Maiko was so ashamed that she was unable to get out of bed in time to make it to the bathroom every night that she refused to see her grandchildren, believing that they must hate her as she hated herself.

Yes, it was true, Ryuk mused, that humans were very interesting. Every deception, every twist of fate, every heart that was broken but kept on beating… there was absolutely nothing like this from where he was from.

Sitting on the rooftop, hidden slightly behind a gargoyle as he ate an apple, he chuckled as he watched the older man force the young girl to her knees in the dark alleyway, the muzzle of a gun pressed to her jaw. Regardless of whether the girl lived, Ryuk knew this man would soon be dead; Light would see to it that this was the case.

And, speaking of Light…

The Shinigami took flight once more, effortlessly soaring through the air, following a meandering path that only made sense in his mind back to headquarters, tossing the core of the apple onto the ground, grinning maniacally as a human nearby stopped as it fell in front of her, and, confused, looked around for who the thrower could be.

Landing on the ground with an inaudible _whump_, Ryuk strode forward a couple of steps, phasing through the wall of the building and sniffing around until he found Light, who sat at a computer typing away, the rest of his task force scattered throughout the room, doing much the same things.

"Hello, L the Second," he greeted, his gravelly voice seeming to have no echo to it whatsoever.

He knew Light heard him, knew the man could, out of the corner of his eye, see the pale blue skin, the bulging yellow eyes, the fanged mouth. But he also knew, from past experience, that Light would never acknowledge the Death God while others were around, no matter how much of a fuss Ryuk made.

"Some things never change, Light," Ryuk sighed, looking over Light's shoulder at the computer screen and grinning when he saw file upon file of criminal names and photographs. All humans may be interesting, but Light was by far his favorite.

Patting the boy on the head (and correctly interpreting Light's momentary glare for what it was—a demand that he not call attention to himself by messing up the strands) he headed into the break room where he knew a paper sack of apples waited at the bottom of the refrigerator.

Yes, Light was great, Ryuk chuckled to himself, smiling as he recalled the numbers over Light's head.

Too bad there isn't much left of him.

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_Well, it's not completely fluffy… but it's better than being completely dark and gloomy, right? Two of these lines here are sort of "borrowed"—Ryuk's line about a broken heart still beating is a reference to the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes", and the title is a reference to the villain song in the 1997 animated movie "Anastasia". _

_Oh, and both segments of a chapter are in response to the requests from colbub and zaurora. Thank you guys for the requests! They help a ton._

_And thank you, everybody, who reads/reviews/enjoys this story! I feel so encouraged! : )_


	12. Photographs and Memories

_March 5, 2009_

With a critical eye, Near examined the three people who stood in a row in front of him. There were two men and one woman. Of course, there were other people too; a dozen. But Near didn't even need to ask to know who the top dogs were.

Looking down at the papers in his hands, Near spoke, his quiet voice louder than a shout in the tiny, silent room.

"'Anthony Rester,'" He confirmed, looking the tall man up and down. "'Stephen Gevanni. Halle Lidner. You three are to make up my SPK?"

The tallest man spoke.

"Yes, Near. Although I'm certain you are aware that those are not our true names…" at Near's nod, Rester continued. "We worked for L, and we will now work for you. I am sure that you will find that we are intelligent, talented, and work very well as a team together, as we have been doing just that for years."

Near regarded them more with his unnervingly dark gaze, and then gave a tiny nod. A collective sigh built throughout the room; Near's small gesture of approval reminded them all that they had been holding their breath.

"I am certain that I do not need to tell you that there is a very real possibility of your death," Near confirmed, unwavering gaze alarming in its intensity. "We are here with the intent to catch and take down the murderer or murderer_s _known to the world as 'Kira'. It is unnecessary to say that the L you worked for died for this cause, and it is my every intention to finish his work."

"We understand," spoke Halle. Near looked at her a moment longer.

"I recognize you, Halle Lidner."

"Of course you do, sir." She offered no further explanation, but Near nodded as if this made all the sense in the world.

The eighteen-year-old boy gestured to the chairs in the room, silently requesting that they all sit; they did so, and he settled himself comfortably on the floor. Although they were now literally looking down on him, he held the same silent command of authority that he did while standing up. Gevanni and Halle looked at each other, bemused, and then Halle gave a tiny shrug; everybody knew L had strange habits; it wasn't really so very surprising that his successor did, as well.

"I spoke with the President of the United States today about Kira. He didn't take the news well, although I believe this was more prejudice against my youthful appearance than because he found a flaw in my evidence; you will find that my evidence is _always _accurate."

There was no hint of smugness or bragging in his voice, but something about his words rubbed Gevanni the wrong way; he resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You are dismissed;" Near informed his SPK. "Please find your desks; I have typed individual books of instructions for you all."

They did so, and as Rester was about to follow everybody out, he felt a small hand catch his. He looked down in surprise—Near had already turned away from him and was looking down at the small racecars that pooled around his feet.

"Anthony Rester." His voice was quiet, and Rester had to strain to hear it.

"Yes, Near?" he was eager to get to work; he felt somewhat uncomfortable being alone with the strange child.

There was a long silence, where Near gently scooted the cars aside on their tiny rotating wheels. Rester watched, curious despite himself, as the white corner of a slip of paper was revealed—one more red car moved and the man could see that it wasn't paper; it was a photograph.

The picture was fully revealed, and Rester could see the face of a young boy, about fourteen years old. He had a cocky-looking face, as if he were breaking rules and didn't care who knew it. Near coughed and, releasing Rester's wrist, he slipped the photograph in some invisible pocket of his pajamas, above his heart.

"I have another task for you." Near withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "It is a list of things I need you to buy and bring back here, as soon as possible."

Taking the paper from Near, Rester examined it.

"What is this? Some sort of weapon's list?"

"No, actually," came Near's emotionless reply, which contrasted sharply with the strange grin on his lips. "Its six hundred dollars worth of toys that I want you to bring."

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_October 11, 2009_

It had been shockingly simple. Had somebody had asked Mello five years ago if it would be easy to kidnap somebody, he would have looked at the asker with his intense blue eyes and asked _them _if they were looking for a one-way ticket to the funny farm.

And yet here he was now, at the blooming age of twenty (_almost _twenty-one). He was five feet, six inches tall, he weighed one hundred and fourteen pounds, and he had just kidnapped a girl.

Once he had decided to "steal" Sayu Yagami, his plan was immediately put into action. "Follow her," he had told the men who worked for him. "You know what to do—she can't know she's being followed. Call me the instant she's alone." This had taken some patience; though his men were experts, (they were the _mafia_, after all), Sayu was a popular girl; she was at a University, and she had many friends. But finally, when the sun was beginning to dip into the horizon, signaling the start of the evening, she had left one of her friend's houses, calling over her shoulder that she had better head home for dinner.

Mello had waited in the passenger seat of a nondescript blue truck, feeling something like a crocodile awaiting a gazelle, as, finally, a call from Rod caused his cell phone to jangle.

"Now," was all Rod had grunted. The man gave him brief instructions which Mello relayed to a very serious-looking Zakk, who pulled the truck along a quiet side-road. It was absolutely perfect; no houses, not a single passerby, just a very short, very dimly lit expanse of pavement and sidewalk.

"Hey," Mello had called, feeling his heart increase with adrenalin when she turned her face, a pleasant-looking expression in her eyes, towards the truck. Her pause was all Rod needed and, in seconds, Sayu was caught in the burly man's arms, her legs kicking wildly. Her skirt tore as she twisted and turned in his grasp, his elbow pressed so firmly to her mouth that Mello worried it would snap her neck. He nervously beckoned his underling to carry her to him and, shaking a single pill (_one is for sleep, _he chanted in his mind as a reminder, _any more is death)_ from a bottle into his hand, he motioned for Rod to slide into the backseat with Sayu on his lap.

She was quite a fighter, the kind look in her brown eyes completely replaced by an animalistic terror, a drive to _escape escape escape. _Mello would have bet all the chocolate in the glove box that, were he to put a stethoscope to her chest, that would be the word her heart sang.

She kicked and scratched, her square-filed fingernails dragging long red streaks up Rod's thick arms. He snarled, his hand slapping the side of her head loudly, and she stilled, dazed, before one high-heeled boot tried to dig into Rod's leg. He removed his elbow from her mouth long enough to shake her, and an ear-splittingly loud cry for "Help! Help me!" filled the car. A pang of guilt entered Mello's heart, which he shook away. He had no _time _for guilt.

Zakk began driving at the correct speed limit (no need to attract attention from the cops) and Mello, taking advantage of her screams, put his hand down her throat, depositing the pill as low as he could, forcing her to swallow. She choked and gagged, and a long string of saliva coated Mello's leather jacket sleeve, but within minutes she was asleep, forced to the floor by Rod, covered with a jacket by Mello, who remembered one of the side effects of the drug was bone-chilling cold. He covered her face with the jacket as well, even as Rod bound her hands together. If she were to wake, he didn't want her to see where they were going.

And then it was time for the last step of the kidnapping; leaving a trail. Reaching into the bag that had been around her arm, it didn't take long to find a cutely decorated cell phone. Unrolling the window, Rod tossed the plastic device onto the sidewalk, where it cracked, bounced, and ultimately landed in a scrubby bush.

As they drove to the headquarters, Mello noticed the sharp scent of urine in the car; apparently she had wet herself out of terror during the struggle. Though Rod had let out a grunt of disgust when he realized what happened, it was all Mello could do not to sink in his seat out of shame. _What have I become? _He wondered briefly, before shaking his head, glaring out the window. _Eyes on the goal, Mihael, _he sharply reminded himself. _Eyes on the goal._


	13. I'll do it for you

_October 31, 2009_

Leaning his back against the metal fence that partially surrounded Wammy's house, Matt slouched on the leaf-strewn ground, sweatshirt hood pulled over his head, partially curled into a ball in an effort to keep the chill out of his bones.

He held a game in his hands, but didn't even turn it on; just sat in one spot, his legs folded underneath him slowly going numb with cold and the fact that he had been sitting on his legs for over an hour. Biting on his chapped lip, he gave a sigh.

Near had left; Mello had been gone for years. Professor Gansah was still there, but she seemed as if without her favorite pupils, she had lost some of her luster. Matt felt very alone.

The sky quickly darkened and Matt heard the traffic rumble slowly behind him, but he didn't come back inside. No matter how kind or sympathetic everybody was to him, he felt like an outsider; a bit vague and confused.

What had to be a motorcycle pulled up close behind him and then stalled, the engine sputtering as the vehicle was stopped right behind Matt, who stiffened. _Odd…_

He heard the engine die, heard whoever was on it slip a leg over the loud bike and step onto the crunching leaves from the overhead trees, approaching the fence.

"Whatever you're selling, we don't want it." Matt made sure to keep his voice lofty and disinterested, without even turning around.

"Is that so?" hints of amusement and nervousness filled the tone.

Matt shot up ramrod-straight, dropping his game with a clatter, green eyes bulging in shock. He felt his heart double in pace, but he attempted to control it, refusing to turn around.

The person behind him stepped closer until Matt could sense the person directly behind him before he was able to compose himself enough to speak.

"… Hey, Mello."

"Hi, Matt."

The boy crouched until he was sitting back on his heels, with only the fence separating the two. Finally, Matt turned, only to find Mello sitting much closer than he had anticipated; as he gave an undignified scoot backwards in surprise his nose brushed firmly against Mello's. He felt his cheeks heating and he looked away.

Mello smiled; Matt wasn't even looking at him and yet Matt could just _tell _from the energy of the moment that Mello was giving his familiar old wicked grin.

"So, how's it been?" Mello's grin hadn't even died on his face yet; his cheeks were so high up in his beam that his eyes scrunched into little blue crescent-moons. Matt couldn't help but give a wry grin at that, too.

"Without you?" Matt couldn't keep the gentle banter out of his tone, but the stark emotion behind it was just audible as well. His voice shook the tiniest bit as he spoke. "Very quiet."

"Heard _you're _the top student now," Mello remarked. "Now that Near and I are gone."

Matt shrugged. "I guess so."

There was a long silence as Mello surveyed his old friend. Matt was almost nineteen years old and had gotten a lot taller, but was still skinny to a fault; almost no fat or muscle resided on his bones. The red hair was the same, if longer than it had been when he left, falling over the green eyes in a shaggy covering.

Mello, too, had changed, though not so much physically, Matt noticed. It was his eyes; now that the goofy grin had gone down, Matt couldn't help but survey the eyes that he hadn't seen in so long, and yet remained so familiar in his heart. The eyes had lost their… _Mello_-ness; they didn't look as mischievous and glittering as they had… back then. Now they appeared much older than Mello's twenty years; much older, and much more tired.

And for some reason, Matt noted with surprise, Mello was dressed entirely in tight, revealing leather. _O… kay… _Matt thought this might be the most bizarre thing of all; not that it wasn't _attractive… _but since when did Mello like leather?

Mello gave a snuffling sigh that somehow reminded Matt of a horse, and suddenly Matt was awash with familiarity, when Mello's head tipped forward to press his forehead against Matt's. He still had the same smell; this was still _his _Mello.

"Come with me?" Mello's voice was quiet, but Matt could still hear the partially hidden vulnerability behind the words. Despite himself, Matt felt the faint stirrings of anger in his stomach.

_What, you leave for four years without contacting me at all, I have no way to know if you're alive or dead, and now you show up and want me to come with you just like that? _Was what he wanted to say, but instead he just sighed as well, his hand unconsciously coming up to press against the back of Mello's neck.

"Where are we going?" he watched, entranced despite his anger, at the long shadows of Mello's eyelashes against his cheeks. He felt more hormonal than a girl during her time of the month; angry one second, adoring the next; he hadn't felt this much emotion since he had last seen Mello; it seemed as if the man brought out the worst of him. Or was it the best?

Mello gave a small, sideways smile. "Japan?"

Matt started, surprised—that was a thirteen hour flight, after all, and he had only left England once before, for Canada. But then, that's where Kira was, right? And he assumed that's where Near was, as well.

There was a long silence as the sun dipped further in the sky; Matt was startled backwards as the orphanage door opened and several of the youngest children, giddy with excitement, trickled out of the doors dressed as vampires and ghosts and one very creative cereal box. They seemed much too interested in the night's plans to even notice Matt and Mello in the corner of the courtyard as they filed down the road for the short walk to the nearby village.

"You have a plan?" he asked Mello, who rolled his eyes. Matt noticed a rosary dangling around Mello's neck and cocked his head, curious; since when had Mello become Catholic?

"Have you really forgotten me so much, Matt? No, of _course _I don't have a plan."

Matt slowly got to his feet, wincing as pins and needles exploded through his legs after so long of being immobile. Mello followed suit.

"Well," Matt finally agreed, "all right then."

Mello slowly made his way to the parked motorcycle. "You… wanna go back in and get your stuff, or say goodbye, or something?" He spoke as if he already knew the answer, as he reached into a backpack waiting on the seat, pulling out a helmet and—Matt's eyes narrowed in familiarity—a pair of gold-tinted goggles.

"No," Matt replied, reaching his hand through the gapped fence to snatch the goggles before bending to stuff his game in his pocket. "I don't want anybody to try to convince me to stay."

He walked quickly to the end of the fence, zipping his hoodie closed as he did so (he didn't have a motorcycle jacket like Mello did; this would have to do) as Mello fastened the helmet over his own head, before, for the first time in four years, he once again stood at his best friend's side.

Feeling somewhat awkward, he slid the backpack over his own shoulders as Mello mounted the beast of a motorcycle, bringing it to life with a thrilling roar of its engine, and Matt couldn't conceal his own grin as he clambered ungracefully onto the back, squeezing Mello around the middle.

Resting his chin on his best friend's shoulder and inhaling deeply as the two sped down the barely-paved road, he couldn't help the soaring elation he felt in his chest. For the first time in four years, he was home.

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_Still __October 31, 2009_

Roger sighed, looking through his window with mournful gray eyes as he watched two of his best students leave Wammy's house—for good, it seemed. Matt was the last to leave, of his L-trio. He was surprised at how empty and numb he felt at this new development. It was true; he hated children, but…

_No. _He was _not, _in any way, fond of them. _No. _He had to remain cool and professional…

The eyes of Watari glinted at him from the framed photograph that rested within the open drawer of his neatly organized desk, their brown orbs twinkling with warm knowing.

"Damn it, Quillsh," Roger murmured underneath his breath. "Don't_ look _at me like that…"

The photograph offered no response, the man within the frame still in his formal posture, forever holding his fedora hat to his belly in a gesture of respect.

Feeling foolish, the seventy-year-old man strode from his desk to the coffee maker that rested on his filing cabinets, pouring himself a cup and, bending to retrieve a miniature bottle of vodka from his hidden stash, pouring in a generous amount to the strong brew before mixing it in with a small stick.

Taking a fortifying gulp, he rubbed the back of his head with his hand and gave a sigh.

"_Roger…" forty-nine years ago, the two men sat in a dark room, Quillsh's head resting on Roger's bare chest, soft hair spilling across Roger._

"_What?" Roger's voice was deep and rumbling from exhaustion, and, smiling, Wammy rolled over, gently nuzzling into his lover's chest. Roger brought an arm around the older man's waist._

"_Roger, I want to start a school. An orphanage. I want to raise gifted children to be detectives, to make a difference in the world, you know?"_

_Roger brought his free hand to the dark-haired man, running his fingers to the slightly shower-damp strands, catching a few on his fingers to twirl a short lock with a finger._

"_Then you should do it, love. You can do anything; haven't I always told you that?"_

_The man rotated his head so that he could look up at Roger, batting his brown eyes innocently._

"_I'd need your help, you know."_

"_Quillsh, you know I don't like children. They're… loud, and messy, and take so much work. And genius children? They'd be so obnoxious, and…"_

_Wammy's large, puppy-dog eyes lowered sadly, and Roger bit his lip. Damn it all… _

"_Alright, fine. Whatever you want."_

_The man gave a wide grin, and Roger felt like kicking himself. Why on earth did he agree to this?_

_Warm lips pressed to his own, and he sighed softly, opening his mouth into the kiss._

_Ah. _That _was why._

Settling back at his desk, Roger slipped the framed photograph out from underneath his desk, looking at it with slightly damp eyes.

_You're gone now, Quillsh, _he thought sadly to the picture, _and now these kids are my responsibility. It's my job to take care of them, you said so yourself, and now they leave…_

Buering his head in his arms, holding the photograph in one tightly- clamped hand, he gave a sad sigh. _Don't worry, Quillsh. I'll still take care of them, to the best of my ability._

_I'll do it for you._

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_DBL here! How is everybody? What did you think of this chapter? This second half was inspired by a prompt from colbub that I write how Roger ended up running Wammy's House. Angst/fluff forever!_

_Anybody have any more prompts? Preferably something cute and fluffy that I can use as filler/padding, but any prompt will do! I love them so much. 3_

_Oh! And I have the official number of chapters up; sixteen total, so there should be three more to come before this story is officially over!_

_In case anybody is confused, Watari's real name is "Quillsh Wammy" and he was born May first, 1933, while Roger's full name is "Roger Ruvie" and he was born April twenty-ninth, 1939. Wammy dies the same day that L dies, November fifth, 2004, at seventy-one years old._


	14. More than you'll ever know

_November 11, 2009_

Mello couldn't help the slight tremble that wracked his body as he crouched underneath the heavily reinforced desk. His eyes were closed tight to hide the terrible images in the rooms; bodies, everywhere. His entire gang—dead. _Dead _dead. Mello had seen plenty of death in his lifetime; he had been there when his father was shot in the face during a mugging, which landed him in Wammy's house in the first place, and he had caused plenty of death during his time with the mafia.

But seeing so many bodies, of people he had come to know and even rely on—if not exactly _like _or _trust_—over the years, was more than a little disturbing.

Tugging his helmet that covered his entire face more tightly over his skin, he let out a hiss of frustrated breath. The point was moot with the helmet; his true name had been discovered and told to Kira. It was a matter of time before he was dead, anyway, but the cameras were destroyed, and Kira's only man who had seen his face was certainly in no condition to write anything down at the moment…

Fingering the long metal tube clutched in his gloved hands, he fretted, feeling more stressed than he had in _years_, despite multiple murders and one kidnapping. He couldn't believe how lucky he was, that he'd set Matt up at their apartment keeping tabs on Misa Amane—had he been with Mello, he would certainly be dead right now. _Thank God… _

Biting his lip, he waited until he could hear the feet of several men hurry to where he was hidden, probably intending to rescue Chief Yagami and possibly force the mask from Mello's own face. _Unacceptable. _

Biting his lip, he hit the small black switch that lined the metal, such an innocent, harmless-looking device. _As if. _

Hurling the quietly beeping tube away from his face and towards the door as hard as he could, Mello buried his face in his arms, smashing his masked head on the floor. His body was curled; his legs bunched frog-style underneath him. _This was gonna hurt…_

The force hit him before the sound did, and he actually felt shockwaves rip through him, slamming him into the underside of the desk with a massive amount of power. He felt the plastic of the helmet shatter on the right side of his face, before heat surged throughout the room. He heard the men yelling, smelled flesh burning.

The desk gave way, tumbling into the wall, and Mello went with it, shattering _through _the wall. He acutely felt his flesh bubble. _I'm going to puke, _he thought absently. _I'm going to die in my own puke…_

Feeling his body crash into a tree outside the Los Angeles Mafia headquarters, he heaved, his shoulders shaking. His vision was covered in little black spots; he couldn't see out of his right eye at all. _Kira's not even going to _need _to kill me, _he thought mournfully. _Guess I did it myself._

The charred reek of flesh permeated the air, and Mello, realizing that it was his own, could no longer breathe. White was clouding the edges of his vision as he attempted to stay conscious, feeling flames lick into his back, his body curling around the tree.

The intense pain was gone within seconds, and he realized that it was because the high-intensity flames had literally burned away his nerve endings. He could feel nothing in his face, his neck, his back…

He really did vomit this time, heaving bile through his sore and abused throat, listening to the roar of the building crumbling behind him.

Seconds passed like hours, or was it the opposite? All he knew that the whiteness in his left eye's vision expanded and contracted with his heartbeat, over and over, and he sighed, wishing darkness would overtake him already. He really had never been fond of waiting.

And then the absolutely unexpected happened. A low moan of a cry echoed throughout the courtyard Mello subconsciously knew he was in, and he stiffened. He _knew _that cry, and he most certainly should not be hearing it right now. He was definitely hallucinating.

And then hands were at his side, carefully pealing him away from the tree. He watched as some of the flesh of his arm stayed on the tree as he was rolled backwards, and he shuddered in disgust; no hallucination would be _that _sickeningly unpleasant.

His partially melted mask was gripped in familiar hands, carefully peeled off his face; he almost said not to bother being careful; it wasn't as if he could feel his face, anyway. He heard the sharp intake of breath, and he felt the man that gently cradled his body shake in revulsion. Had more skin come off?

"Mells," the man hissed quietly. "We need to get out of here _now. _Some of those guys are still alive; they have backup coming."

Matt stuffed his head underneath Mello's arm, standing and taking Mello up with him. Tentatively wrapping an arm around his best friend's waist, half-dragging, half-carrying him away into the tree-filled area behind the building.

This time white _did _overwhelm Mello's vision, and he could barely control his lips enough to speak. "Wha' are you do'n here?" he slurred his words, hearing how thick his voice was with smoke, feeling liquid trickle from his mouth. "S'no safe…"

"Shut up," Matt insisted unhelpfully, briefly lifting Mello up to avoid tripping him on a root. "Damn, you're heavy." Was all he grunted.

His eyes were closed, but the left one shot open again when he felt a second pair of hands seize his ankles, a curtain of hair touch the unburned skin of his legs.

"Halle?" he was incredulous, the loud sound tearing from his lips resulting in a hacking cough.

She didn't respond, and soon his eyes were lulled closed again. He must have fainted for real this time, because he felt himself groggily return to the present as he was heaved in the back of what looked like an unfamiliar van, on top of a clean white sheet.

"Get in," he heard Halle urge Matt shortly. "Hold him." Her words were brisk, and to Mello's foggy hearing, a little _angry _sounding. He still wondered what she was doing there; had Matt called her? And how had he known to do so? Had Near sent her?

He felt the red-haired boy slide into the trunk beside him, gently lifting his head until Mello rested in Matt's lap, the boy's strong arms around him.

They had been staying together in a nondescript apartment since Mello recruited Matt, but they had little to no interaction; a brief discussion of plans here and there, but really Mello spent most of his time with the Mafia, and Matt spent most of his time at the apartment monitoring Misa on several computers. Mello had tried to introduce Matt to the Mafia members, but instantly regretted it; he watched his men's eyes light up when they looked at Matt, traveling hungrily up and down the young man's skinny frame.

Strong feelings of hatred and jealousy had heated his belly and that had been the end of that; there was no way Mello was going to allow his men to sit there and undress his Matt with _those_ eyes—not that Matt was _his_, of course.

Fingers pushed his singed hair out of his face, and he felt Matt tremble slightly underneath Mello.

"God…" He whispered, staring openly at Mello's charred skin. "Oh, _Mells…" _the horror in his tone made Mello's stomach roll. Was he really that bad?

"Shut up." he attempted to glare at his friend, and then stopped with a wince. Even _glaring _hurt. "Talk abou' som'thin' else."

"What do you want me to talk about?" Matt's voice was definitely rising in pitch, taking on an edge of desperation. "The fact that the one person in the world I love is currently burned half to death?"

Mello's eyes widened a little at this; he _had _to be hearing things. Hoping to keep Matt from saying anything else he'd regret, he spouted the first thing that came to mind.

"Tell th' story of how he go' the choc'late from Roger's stash, that time…" he felt something ooze from his mouth and watched as Matt put his fingers to Mello's lips; they came away red. Matt shook his head.

"Which time? We did it so often…"

"Any time."

The car was silent for a long time, Halle carefully making her way to... to… Mello actually had no idea where they were going, and he didn't ask; for the first time ever, he really didn't care. He was beginning to think Matt wouldn't talk at all, when the boy began.

"There was that time when…" Matt's voice was a still a little higher pitched than normal, but he spoke through it; soon it returned to normal. Mello had to thank his lucky stars he was wearing his helmet when he set the bomb off; otherwise he probably wouldn't be able to hear at all. "you got in trouble on purpose. Did something stupid—I think you literally waited until Roger was watching and then squeezed an entire bottle of red paint on the carpet. Deliberately."

Mello wasn't able to smile, but he certainly felt like it. _Oh yeah… I remember… _

Matt continued. "I thought you had lost it—it was _white _carpet, and Roger had paid a _ton _to get it in place—for Christ's sake, Mells, it was brand _new._"

"So then, of course, he dragged you to his office to yell at you, but you turned and _winked _at me, and all of a sudden, I knew what was going on. _God _you were an idiot," Matt added fondly.

"I waited a few minutes and snuck outside his office in time to hear him yelling at you—about _Oppositional Defiance Disorder _and _did you have a problem with authority figures _and he asked whether or not you were mentally sound… That went on forever. I still don't think it was worth it."

"It was," Mello interjected softly.

"And as soon as he went to his "secret" booze stash you were digging through his desk, grabbing all the chocolate bars you could reach. You stood up—what for, anyway? What was your excuse?"

"I jus' pretended I was pacing." Mello's voice felt very hoarse now; he hoped he wouldn't need to speak again.

"Yeah, ok. And you went to the door and started handing all the bars out to me—Roger caught you, of course, but he didn't have any proof on _me—_I ran before he could see my face. Probably guessed it was me, though." Good old Roger; innocent until proven guilty and all that.

Mello had gotten into so much trouble…

Smiling fondly at the memories, Mello closed his eyes, feeling very, _very _tired. He wondered with a little distress whether or not he had a concussion, but he knew just how smart Halle and Matt were; they would take care of him. He allowed himself to be rolled with the rocking of the vehicle.

Something landed on his face, followed by another something. Unable to really feel what it was, he opened his eye. Matt was sitting absolutely still, tear after tear rolling down his cheeks, plopping onto Mello's face. HE frowned; he had never seen Matt cry before, even when he had accidentally kicked him where _guys don't like to be kicked _during capioperia.

"Matt...?" he didn't say anything else, but the question lingered at the end of the sentence just the same.

Matt didn't respond, just leaned over fully to press a soft kiss on Mello's unburned scalp, and Mello understood.

"I love you, too," he spoke carefully, without slurring. _More than you'll ever know._

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_November 19, 2011_

"_Damn it, _Mello, you're _insane,_" Matt hissed through clenched teeth, watching the blonde man rip away at the bandages that covered his melted body. "_Stop _that." He attempted to grab Mello's arms, but he dodged his grasp and continued to rip away chunks of clean white bandage without hesitation.

"No. I'm leaving." Mello was enraged, ripping at the binding and removing more than a few slivers of brittle skin as he did so.

"At least leave the bandages around your chest," Matt cried desperately. Mello was standing, naked except for the bindings, in front of a mirror. He had stiffened when he saw his reflection; massive amounts of scar tissue covered half of his face, but, miraculously, both of his eyes were still intact and functioning.

His back, however, was a different story. Blistered black, it flaked like dust in the wind. Matt had never seen anything so horrifying and so sad. It was sheer, blind luck that Mello had survived at all. He ought to be in a hospital somewhere, with skin grafts and IV's keeping him hydrated. But being a wanted _crime _boss, that wasn't exactly a possibility. Matt had to make do with the supplies Halle kept him stocked up on; he would never understand why she had come through so helpfully—she had just showed up at their apartment eight days ago and literally dragged Matt into her car. He had no idea _how _she knew, but suspected Near was involved somehow.

"Mello." Matt tried to keep his voice soothing and reasonable, ever-so gently wrapping his arms around his best friend's damaged skin, holding him tenderly to his chest. "Mells, _listen _to me. You were in an _explosion _eight days ago. It's a miracle you're even _alive. _For heaven's sake, go _lay down _or something; let me bring you some damn soup."

Mello turned slowly in the circle Matt's arms, looking him straight in the eye. He saw Matt flinch as he saw the once-beautiful Mello's face completely ruined, but he held his ground.

"Near has my _picture. _I can't… I don't…" Mello struggled for the right words to say. "I should have destroyed it years ago. The fact that Near _has _it is… deadly. I NEED it." Matt could have smacked himself in the head; Halle had told him about the picture, and he had just _had _to open his fat mouth and blab it to Mello. _Stupid._

Matt understood that Mello was trying to be reasonable, a further testament to Mello's failing health; were he feeling like his normal self, Mello would simply have shoved Matt aside and done as he wanted anyway.

"_Fuck_." Mello swore softly underneath his breath, and Matt broke his grip as he watched Mello seize a bottle of pain medication, tilting far too many pills into his mouth and chewing them dry.

"Ok," Matt scrambled for the right words to say. "Ok; _I_'ll get it from Near; how 'bout that? _You… stay here _and watch TV or something _normal _for somebody who JUST SURVIVED a BOMB."

"No." Mello's response was curt and sharp; he _would _get his way on this. "You wouldn't be able to do what I'm going to do."

Obeying Matt, he left on his chest and other body wrappings, just baring his face as he dressed slowly, grimacing in pain, in Matt's black jeans and his own black hoodie—nothing else. It _hurt, _after days of recovering in no other clothes…

"What are you going to do?" Matt was officially freaked out now as he watched Mello snatch the keys to the red car they shared. They kept _guns _in that car… and worse, bombs.

"I'm going to Lidner's place," was the curt response as Mello stepped firmly out of the apartment.

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It wasn't the first time Halle Bullook had had a gun trained on her—not by a long shot. But the one _wielding _the weapon was what caused her nearly-white blonde eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

She had barely stepped into her hotel room when she sensed that she wasn't alone. On seeing Mello, she pressed a finger to her lips, shushing him without making a sound.

"Near." She spoke to the bug attached to her clothing and watched Mello's confused expression melt into one of wry understanding. "I'm going to take a shower now, so I'm taking the bug off, alright?"

"Alright," came Near's emotionless response; she detected no suspicion in his tone, but that didn't mean squat. She unclipped the device from her top, setting it down where Mello could see it, on her counter. Beckoning him to follow her, she betrayed no fear, simply because she felt none. She could sense when somebody intended to really hurt her, and she had received none of those vibes from Mello.

She led him to the tiled bathroom, where he leaned heavily against the wall, attempting to pull it off as a moody slouch, but she knew better; he was exhausted and probably in a significant amount of pain. She really hadn't expected to see him so soon; it made her like him even more than she already did.

Turning the water on full blast, and switching on the bathroom fan for added noise, she gestured for Mello to speak.

"Lidner," he struggled to remain blank-faced as he fought the pain coursing through his remaining nervous system—stupid meds barely curbed it at all.

He watched, a little surprised at her boldness despite himself, as she stripped out of her clothing with absolutely no self-consciousness, tossing her coat onto the sink with the rest of the outfit, before carelessly turning her back on him and stepping into the water. Huh—it _wasn't _just a ruse; she really did intend to bathe. Whatever; wasn't his problem either way.

She spoke briefly about Near, her voice somewhat garbled underneath the showerhead's descending water, but easy enough to understand.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, once she brought up the possibility that Near already knew Mello was in the bathroom. "Live in here? I don't mind."

He raised an eyebrow at that question, despite the pain it brought to his un-burned forehead. _Live in Lidner's bathroom? Why the hell… _and then it hit him, the purr in her tone, the way he could see her silhouette tilt backwards seductively, and he forced down a lump in his throat. Was she really offering… He remembered his first time meeting her when he was a child, remembered thinking how beautiful she was… but now was hardly the time to dwell on it. He could hardly stand up, let alone consider doing… _other _things.

She correctly interpreted his silence as an uncomfortable rejection, and she shrugged, not really upset either way.

"Near thinks that the other L is Kira." She offered the information as a gesture of an apology; _sorry if my offer made you uncomfortable._

This struck Mello like nothing else she could have said. It fit into the puzzle so well… he was briefly reminded of Near and his puzzles, each piece falling perfectly into place on the first try. It had to be… damn Near, he was too good.

She stuck a hand out from behind the curtain after a few long moments of silence, fumbling for the towel she had left folded neatly on the toilet lid, and Mello bent forward to hand it to her. _Ow. _

Emerging, dripping from the shower a second later, dabbing at her hair with the towel clenched in her hand, not even attempting to cover herself, Halle strode past Mello to look at her reflection in the mirror. Trying to keep his eyes off of her shapely buttocks, although he doubted she'd mind even if he openly stared, he dug a bar of chocolate from the pocket of his hoodie and unwrapped it, biting into it with more force than the task required.

"Halle," he finally asked, using her first name because he was pretty sure it was real, unlike 'Lidner', "whose side are you on?"

She shrugged off the question with a comment about Near and Mello sharing the same goals meant that there weren't any sides to begin with, and he bit off a groan of frustration. She knew what he meant; she was just being difficult.

She stood in a doorway, her nearly clear-blue eyes flickering to his own electric blue ones, a dangerous smile causing her heavily-lashed eyes to lower attractively. She gave a vague threat about telling Near where Mello was if he wouldn't tell her his plans, and the gun, as she suspected it would be, was once again focused on her face.

"We're going back to your headquarters. Get dressed; you're taking me."

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Headquarters were surprisingly close to Halle's hotel; Mello noted, feeling more than a little suspicious as he followed Lidner's lead, his gun trained firmly to the back of her head. He knew they were being watched, but that was just as well; no need to surprise anybody if he just wanted the picture.

The two men inside the room opened the doors for him, but did not look at all trusting; quite the contrary—they both pulled their own guns and aimed them at Mello. He held back a smirk as he saw the more-than professional panic in the dark-haired man's eyes; clearly Halle had her own admirers. Near requested that his guard dogs lower their weapons, which they reluctantly did.

The exchange between Near and Mello was brief, as Mello knew it would be. The boy didn't even turn around to meet his old rival's eyes.

As he left the building, leaving Halle behind as he did so, pulling out his phone to contact Matt, he examined his photo, almost not recognizing his little hellion self in the glossy photo—he had changed so much, and not just physically. But when he flipped it over, two words that had not been there before caught his eye. _Dear Mello._

"Dammit!" Mello couldn't help but loudly exclaim, no longer caring that he was probably still being watched. He dropped the photo into a tiny pool of dirty water puddling by a storm drain, grounding it underneath his boot until it was just a pulpy mess. Once again, Near had one-upped him.

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_DBL here—jeez, this chapter was LONG. Couldn't find a way to make it shorter, though—sorry, guys._

_I tried to fill some requests here; colbub's request that I write about an elaborate Matt/Mello plan to steal chocolate, zaurora's request that I talk about when Mello introduces Matt to the mafia, and Ygrayne's standing request for MOAR HALLE. : ) As always, I love reviews! SO much. Love it, hate it, be sure to let me know!_


	15. Of Christmas and Chocolate Kisses

_December 13, 1995_

"_Come on, L, we're going to be late!" the blonde six-year-old clutched the hand of the older boy, who followed along at his own loping pace, his free hand stretched behind his head to support the back of the small child who had his arms wrapped tightly around L's neck, his legs locked around the dark-haired teen's waist. A small red-haired boy loped patiently behind his group._

"_Mello," L chided in his low, smooth voice, trying to hold back a smile despite his fake stern persona. "We're not going to be 'late' in the slightest; we're about two hours early, actually. We didn't really have a chance to be 'late', as you jumped on all our beds to wake us up at the crack of dawn."_

_L heard the small, even breaths in his ear and smiled despite himself; Near had fallen asleep and they weren't even in the garage yet; he supposed this was too much excitement for the brilliant four-year-old. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at the sleepy-eyed Matt, who continually placed one tiny sneaker-clad foot in front of the other despite the fact that he looked like he'd prefer nothing more than to curl up where he stood and take a nap. Matt sure was a trooper; L had to admire that in him._

_When they finally reached Wammy's extensive garage, they were surprised to see that only one car remained parked, the driver behind the wheel swallowing large gulps of coffee to keep himself awake. L had arranged it so that there would definitely be at least one driver, even this early on a Wednesday morning, but he had never seen the garage so empty before._

_Settling in the back seat between Matt (who rested his head on L's shoulder, closing his eyes as soon as he was buckled in) and Mello, who appeared to be literally vibrating with excitement, L switched Near's little body around until the child rested in his lap, the cottony hairs on his head tickling L's nose as the child rested against his friend's scrawny chest._

"_Thank you for doing this for us," L told the driver, and his brain supplied that the man's name was Duane Lumbley. The driver gave a noncommittal grunt. "Wammy's paying me extra for this; no big deal," his voice was gruff, but L easily heard the kindness underneath. "Where to?" the man asked, setting the van rumbling into gear._

"_Th—the," L had to pause mid-sentence for a large yawn, which seemed to set off a chain reaction between Matt and Mello, who also yawned. "Excuse me. The Mall at Hampton Court. I realize that's a bit of a drive, but if you'd be so kind…"_

"_Don't worry about it," was all the driver said before switching on his radio, adjusting the volume so that it was just loud enough for him to hear, and not to disturb the sleepy children in the back._

_Tilting his own head down so that it rested atop Matt's, who still reclined on L's shoulder, L closed his own eyes, but was jolted alert by Mello's babbling._

"_Thanks, L! Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I've been so excited about this ALL YEAR long and…" Mello stopped with a frown when L shot him a _look_, but seemed to get the message; let L rest or this wouldn't be as pleasant as planned. He had to contend himself with staring out the window as they approached the nearest town._

_It was a forty-five minute drive, made the tiniest bit shorter by the general _lack _of traffic this early in the morning, but to the impatient Mello, it felt much longer. He was despairing that they would _never _reach the mall, when Duane pulled into a little drop-off section of the parking lot._

"_Kay, kids," he told the four of them. "I'll be here to pick you up at eleven. Be safe, ok?" L stirred at the man's voice, sitting up and giving Near a little shake as he did so. The tiny child opened his melted-chocolate dark eyes, long lashes brushing his cheeks as he yawned. Near stayed limp as a rag doll as L dragged him out of the car with one arm tightly around his stomach, and was disappointed to be set on his own little feet; he was not a fan of _walking _and had quite hoped that L would be the one to carry him._

_It was Mello who ushered them through the _whooshing _doors of the mall, bouncing on the balls of his feet, urgent in his forceful pushing. "C'mon, c'mon!" _

_Once inside, they looked around in slight awe. It wasn't often that they got to leave Wammy's, and they had never seen the large building so empty before. The shop owners were just turning on the 'open' signs. It felt quite like another world._

"_Right, coffee first," L directed, squeezing the wallet which was filled with cash Roger had given to him. It was a one-time thing after all; the old man had smiled indulgently. "Have a little fun."_

"_I'll buy you breakfast," he added before Mello had a chance to pout. Mello brightened at this; he _liked _food._

_They had their choice of tables in the mall's extensive food court, something that had never happened before. L poured packet after packet of sugar in his coffee until the whole thing had taken on the sandy texture of water at the shore of the beach. Mello ate with relish, chocolate ice cream dripping down his chin; the worker girl had raised an eyebrow when the kid demanded ice cream for breakfast, of all things, but hadn't objected. Matt and Near, not overly hungry, shared a plate of more traditional breakfast fare._

_A fat man dressed in fuzzy red velvet ambled past their table, catching Mello's attention. Turning to look over the back of the seat, Mello watched the man enter the bathroom, only to come out moments later with a white beard, a white wig, and a red hat to finish his outfit._

"_What's _he _doing here?" Mello's irritation was evident. "It's _my _day, not _his_!"_

_Near's head drooped in his arms, his eyes fluttering closed once again, a dab of syrup on his cheek._

"_Mello, there are other children in the world besides you," L informed him. "And they want to visit Santa sometime before Christmas." Mello glared at this, wanting to argue somehow that it _wasn't _Christmas and Santa should just stay out of it, when he noticed Matt was gone._

"_Matt? Matt!" he looked around wildly but saw no sign of the five-year-old. L shot to his feet before stumbling over his own untied laces. _Damn shoes. Never did any good for anybody. _He wasted precious seconds making badly-tied knots out of the fabric before, grabbing Near, he hustled from his seat, leaving his coffee behind him._

"_Matt! He can't have gone far…" Mello looked close to tears._

_It was almost ten minutes before they found the boy. Emerging from a video game store, his chubby little arms clutched around a huge stack of plastic discs and chips, he grinned at them._

"_Hi, guys!" L's heart, which had felt like it had both stopped beating completely and sunk down into his toes, suddenly shot back into its proper place, beating like crazy._

"_Matt!" Mello cried joyfully, rushing back to his friend's side. "We thought you'd disappeared, like those kids in The Prophecy!" _

"_Mello," L couldn't help but glare. "Remember what I told you about Rated-R Horror Movies?"_

_Mello ignored him, his nose lifted in the air, crinkling adorably._

"_I smell chocolate!" he cheered. "We're almost _there_!" It wasn't necessary to ask where "there" was; it was the whole reason they had gone to this mall instead of the closer one in the first place. Still feeling angry at Matt for pulling a worrisome disappearing act only to turn up fine, L was careful to hold tightly onto Matt's sleeve, pulling the boy after him as the four made their way to Chocolate Heaven._

_Chocolate Heaven was the name of a peculiar shop- more like a factory, really. Each chocolate confection was made carefully by hand by an older woman named Janiece Schnitman and her two daughters, Jodee and Earlie. What fascinated Mello the most was that the back of the store was covered by a glass wall, but you could look through it to watch the candies and cakes being created. It held his attention like nothing else ever could. _

_A tiny bell over the door tinkled pleasantly as they walked inside, and Janiece looked up, her wrinkled face folding into a smile as she stood at the counter, wrapping what looked like thick M+M brownies in blue plastic with little ribbons to keep it in place._

"_Well, if it isn't Mello!" she cried happily. She prided herself on knowing the names of her returning customers, and Mello was easy to remember; although it was only once in a blue moon that he was able to visit, it was always memorable._

"_Hello, Mrs. Schnitman!" Mello cried, absolutely thrilled. "Today's my birthday!"_

"_Is it?" Janiece asked with genuine interest in her voice. "How old are you?"_

"_Six!" the pride in Mello's voice was evident._

"_Six years old! My, that's big! Well, I certainly have plenty of chocolate treats for a birthday boy!"_

_It was nearly an hour and a half before Mello finally allowed himself to be dragged from the store. Near had fallen asleep inside an empty cupboard at the back of the store, and Mello had long since broken in his game stash, starting up on one of the games, squeezing himself in the cupboard beside Near to play while Mello and L wandered around the store blissfully, nearly intoxicated with the free samples alone._

_Jodee and Earlie waved at the four of them as they left (L and Mello carrying five bags between the two of them absolutely bulging with delectable treats), and L glanced at his watch._

"_We only have about half an hour before we've got to meet Duane, guys," he informed them, watching with some amusement as Matt kept dropping games on the ground, his arms so full with them he was absolutely incapable of carrying them all at once. The red-head finally accepted this fact and snuck up behind Mello, dumping a handful of the microchips into the somewhat less-filled chocolate bag. Matt had probably spent over a year's worth of allowance on those games, but L couldn't talk; he had spent much more than he really should have on chocolates._

"_I would like to see Santa," Matt said in a serious voice. Mello turned to glare at him, but, unable to think of any reason to argue why he _shouldn't_, finally gave in with a sigh._

"_Near, is there anything you'd like to do?" L asked the dark-eyed four-year-old who somehow had gotten L to agree to carrying him piggyback again. Near shook his head, content with the ride._

"_Alright, Santa it is," L finally agreed._

_There was now a line to sit on Santa's lap; it seemed the mall was slowly getting filled with more customers. Mothers stood with their children, who had looks of both terror and excitement on their faces. One little girl began crying, and a black-haired teenager wiped a tear from her eyes._

"_What's a matter, cousin?" the black-haired woman consoled. _

"_I wanted Santa to be wearing _pink _boots!" the child cried harder, until her cousin was forced to pick the child up and walk away, consoling her quietly._

_Mello snorted at the ridiculousness of the conversation, reaching into one of the bags to grab a chocolate, which he popped into his mouth without looking before spitting it out violently. It wasn't _chocolate; _it was a video game card._

"_Matt…" he rumbled threateningly._

"_Next!" called Santa, and Matt gave Mello a grin before scampering to the man, hopping onto his lap without any fear or hesitation._

"_Ho, ho, well aren't you the bold one!" Santa laughed heartily, chucking Matt gently under the chin. "Have you been good this year?"_

_Matt shrugged, feeling somewhat shy. "Sometimes."_

_Santa laughed even more at his honesty and Matt could see a little bit of black stubble above where the long white beard was attached to the man's face. "What would your Christmas wish be?"_

_Matt looked around quickly, making sure nobody could hear him before leaning in to the man's ear._

"_I wish that Mello and I can be friends forever," was all he whispered. "That's all I really want."_

_The man looked at him, surprised, and then smiled. He seemed a little touched at the five-year-olds honesty._

"_Well, you'd better work hard," he insisted. "Friendships take a lot of work, you know; work, and a little magic." He gave Matt a wink._

_Mello snuggled into L's shoulder as they made their way back home, reaching across L's and Near's lap for Matt's hand, which he squeezed._

"_Thank you for the best birthday ever," he told them all._

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_January 25, 2010_

Sitting cross-legged on the sofa that had come with their newly rented Japanese apartment, Mello shoveled yet another forkful of chocolate cake into his mouth. He was wearing his threadbare gray pajamas from his Wammy days—they showed quite a few inches more of ankle than necessary, but they were soft and warm and he never could bring himself to throw them away. A clattering caused him to look up, sleepy eyes filled with stress.

Matt, dressed in a thick coat over his usual clothes, brushed snow off his shoulders, shivering, before bending to once again pick up the large box he was dragging around. He panted slightly from the effort and Mello set his paper plate of cake aside, standing carefully and approaching his friend, arms outstretched to help.

Matt shook his head. "Mello, go sit down; you've still not recovered." He knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say; Mello rarely coped well with being bossed around, and anyway he was feeling much better. _Really. _All of his crumbled, burned skin had flaked off leaving red scar tissue where black flakes had once been, and he was getting some of the feeling back in the less badly-burned places. Mello, ignoring Matt, gripped the other edge of the box and helped carry the container to rest on the ground in front of their sofa.

The two men settled down, the fabric of the sofa wrinkling underneath their combined weight as Mello began once again to devour the cake with obvious satisfaction. Matt eyed his friend, a reddish eyebrow rising in amusement.

"I thought you _didn't want _that birthday cake," Matt teased. "If I recall correctly, your exact words included the phrases "cake is stupid" and I was "you're an idiot for buying it."

"Shut up," the recently turned twenty-one year old mumbled, crumbs spraying from his mouth. "It _wash _shtupid_." _His words were slightly lisped from the delicious cocoa-flavored confection that delighted his taste-buds. Matt couldn't stop the laugh that burbled from deep in his belly and he leaned backwards, resting his chilly head on Mello's warm shoulder. Mello gave a little glare but otherwise did nothing to dislodge his friend, and nothing to stop the tiny smile that graced his own mouth.

When the silence grew slightly stale, Mello set his empty plate aside, turning to Matt who sat back upright, a guilty smile for indulging his desire to snuggle Mello on his slightly blue-from-cold lips.

"So," Mello searched for something to say, licking the crumbs from around his mouth with his long pink tongue. Matt stared a moment too long at Mello's mouth before looking away, a tiny blush appearing high on his cheeks. "What's in the box?"

"Huh?" Matt still looked a little out of it as he rubbed his hands together, trying to create warmth from the friction. Mello rolled his blue eyes impatiently.

"I _mean, _why did you brave the arctic temperatures outside, and then come back _inside _with a ginormous box? _What's in it_, a puppy?" he teased.

Matt grinned. "I'll show you."

He reached into the box and withdrew a long rifle; still grinning, he held it up to his shoulder—the image of a creepily-smiling boy armed with such an absurd weapon was more than a little disturbing, and this time Mello couldn't hold back his snort of a laugh.

"O… kay… What else've you got in there?"

Matt wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and Mello once again rolled his eyes, turning his head slightly to conceal the affectionate smile. _Dork. _Bending forward gingerly at the waist, mindful of his still-healing injuries, he pawed through the rattling contents of the box, withdrawing a fully loaded smoke gun, several smaller bombs, and two handheld guns. But the thing that surprised him most were the metal handcuffs, lined gently with leather to keep the metal from causing too much wrist pain. He held these up, dangling them slightly.

"What are _these _for?" he regretted the question instantly as the still flirty grin on Matt's face registered on Matt's face, but instead of giving any innuendos he was obviously thinking of, he replied seriously.

"You said you needed them, remember? For… for tomorrow." The grin drooped a little from the green-eyed man's face, and Mello understood. _Of course. Takada. _Matt had initially been very against the insane prospect of _kidnapping a famous and well-protected woman, _but it was a testament to his loyalty to his friend that he, after much discussion, eventually agreed to the plan.

"We're not going to… hurt her, right?" he had asked, a little nervously, when they had gone over the plans, and Mello had to bite his tongue to keep from snarling. _Hurt _her? What did he look like, some kind of monster? He instantly regretted the question to himself; truth was, looking at his reflection, he did remind himself of a monster. Mello killed people; he had kidnapped before and he would again, soon—tomorrow. He _was _a monster.

And yet sometimes he believed he wasn't completely damned; he had protected Sayu, after all; the way his men had looked at her with lust-filled eyes as she struggled and cried, bound at the wrists and ankles, her attractive, youthful body arching as she screamed… he had sat in front of her door for days, armed and watchful, threatening any who approached her. That had to count for something, right?

… Right?

The left-handed boy bumped Mello with an overly-bony hip, catching his attention. "Mells?" he was worried when he saw how Mello's eyebrows were drawn into a little _v _between his eyes, definitely a sign of stress. It took a few moments, but Mello eventually turned to his friend, unnamable emotions brimming in those startlingly _blue _eyes.

"We're not going to survive this, Matt," he whispered, his words slow, sincere. Scarred hands fluttered to Matt's face, pushing tendrils of red hair aside. Eyes filled with desperation, he wheezed out "I can't let you do this for me. You can't come with me tomorrow."

Matt's hands slid upwards, gently grabbing Mello's wrists, untangling the long fingers from his shaggy hair. As Mello watched, the achingly familiar sea of calming moss green that was Matt's eyes softened, containing only one, breathtakingly-easy to read emotion; _love. _He brought one of his freckled hands forward, gently touching the unburned half of Mello's face, cupping the cheek gently.

"Don't you get it, Mells?" he asked quietly, staring into his friend's eyes. "We're doing this together. The way we've always done things."

Mello was a little stunned at this, at the sincerity in Matt's gaze. Relief bubbled momentarily in his stomach.

"We won't be together, Matt," he said quietly. "I don't get to go to heaven or hell, remember? I've used the Death Note."

Matt considered this for a moment, worry etched in every line of his young face. "If I could," he finally said quietly, "I'd use it, too. To be with you. I don't think God would keep us apart, Mello… I really think we'll be together anyway."

And then, something in Mello's carefully guarded heart gave way, the stubbornness, the resistance, it just melted as easily as if it had never existed in the first place. "_Matt…" _it was little more than a whisper, but it was enough.

Bringing his other hand to Mello's neck, careful not to rub the scars and cause any unnecessary pain, Matt leaned forward slowly, pressing a kiss first to Mello's forehead, then a tiny one underneath each eye, and then to his mouth.

Sighing, Mello curled his hands around his shoulders, lying back and pulling Matt down gently on top of himself. _Together, as always, with Matt._

It had always been Matt.

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_Author here! Awh, sorry if that last segment (with Matt and Mello) was a bit too sappy… but, I mean, when you're pretty much guaranteed to die within the next twenty-four hours, I think it's ok to be sappy. ^^ I think L would be proud of his Little Three; that's sort of why I included one last L story in this chapter—because I know he's watching over his "kids", somehow. Only one more chapter to go—it all ends tomorrow! Dun dun duuuun…_

_In case you were wondering, the parts about L's shoes and Matt's trouble with carrying his video games both came from requests from coblub._

_One thing I wondered at; Matt died just a few days before his twentieth birthday; that sucks! I mean, no cake and ice cream? But I figured, since Mello's birthday is in December and Matt's is in February, why not have cake in January? :D_

_Oh; I'm also working on a little fanart of this story… If it's done by tomorrow I'll post a link to it in chapter sixteen. I'm not a GREAT artist so don't set your expectation too high ^^; but I do like to illustrate sometimes. :D_


	16. We're still with you, Near

_1/28/2010_

And here it was, Near mused to himself. He was the only one left, as he had always expected he would be. The knowledge of Matt and Mello's death two days prior had hit him harder than he had expected; he literally felt pieces of his cool exterior dislodge upon hearing the news. Mentally holding himself together, he shrugged the information off, but he was shaken for quite some time. _Matt… Mello… L… this is for _you.

Adjusting the heavy plastic over his face, he rotated it until he could see just fine out of the eye holes. The elastic strap keeping it in place was slightly too tight; he hadn't had as much time as he would've liked to make it, but he knew it was effective nonetheless. _L, _he thought, hoping the man could hear him, wherever he was. _I borrow your face out of respect and memory; please lend me your strength._

The man called Rester pressed a rough hand to Near's back.

"Are you doing all right?" he asked, wondering if he should share his thermos of coffee with the young boy sitting, crouched, on the rather dingy floor of his Yellow Box Warehouse. Near turned to look at him, and Rester nearly shuddered at the mask; the man he worked for was certainly an odd one. _Brilliant, _but odd.

"Yes, Rester, I am alright," Near replied. "I apologize for dragging everybody out here so early," he addressed the rest of the room, knowing that Gevanni and Halle (whose beautiful face had yet to lose the grief that etched underneath her eyes; though she tried to contain it with a brave façade, it was clear that Mello's death was hurting her in her heart) were standing in the back, listening. He didn't have to turn to know that Gevanni cradled the woman's hand gently in his own; he didn't have to. He knew them well enough now to know what they would do in reaction to most situations. "But," he continued, wanting to prove that there was a method to his madness, "I wanted to be sure to be here before Light Yagami got here; it was crucial to the planning."

They sat in silence for a while, Near fingering the plastic bundles in his pockets, going over every inch of plan in his mind. _It must be infallible. He _must _claim victory. This had to end—_today. And then, _yes_, there it was; the tell-tale _clunk _of a car door slamming shut, the unmistakable _crunch _of several pairs of feet on gravel rock. _Showtime. _

The door creaked open slowly, allowing the admittance of several men, whose names Near already knew by heart. _Mogi, _large and stoic as always_. Ide, _eyes cold and blank, was calculating his every step. _Aizawa—_looking grim and a tiny bit uncertain with the black Death Note strapped visibly to his chest—_Matsuda_, looking young and nervous, and, _yes, Light Yagami_, in the flesh.

Near looked down at his plastic figurines arranged in a _u_ shape around him, so that he could see every one of their plastic faces. He had ever-so-carefully crafted each by hand, and now they would return the favor in telling his story in a way that words could not.

There was a flickering in the back that Near carefully trained his eyes to avoid; it was the Shinigami. Mustn't give away that he could see it; at least, not yet. He hoped his SPK would resist the temptation to stare at the otherworldly being that flanked the five men like a surreal shadow as he had instructed them to do, but knew in his heart that they would; they were loyal, through and through. The nine people and one Shinigami stared at each other silently for about a minute. Then Near heard several of the men conversing quietly with Light, no doubt sizing Near up. They complained about the general unfairness of Near's mask, and Near assuaged their fears with an inarguable statement that he needed it for half an hour, for safety's sake, before he took it off. _Then, L, _he thought once more, _I will stand on my own. _

As the minutes ticked by and the seven men and one woman shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, Near fingered the elastic on the back of his head. _It was time… _Slipping the covering from his face, he blinked his dark eyes, making eye-contact with Light Yagami for the first time, knowing his innocent-looking appearance would probably throw a few off of their game; it was an advantage he enjoyed. No doubt a game Light himself employed; he was well aware that Light was above-average in the "attractive" category, which was probably what gave him an edge in his conquests. Using their disarming appearance to their advantages was something that Near and Light had in common. Near gave his peculiar smile… and let the course of the inevitable day's events unfold as he began to spin his tale.

He told the men about Teru, how he was confident the man would peek in the room in just a moment, determined to kill everybody in the room _except for _Kira, and how that would be Kira's downfall; when Teru found himself unable to kill the eight other people, they would attack and see the names. Whoever's name were not written down was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, _the _Kira.

Matsuda looked unconvinced, large brown eyes crinkled in confusion. "But if he writes our names down, we'll all die anyway, so we won't be _able _to read whoever's name is left in the Note."

Near was actually glad the man brought up that point; though his tone was not bragging, he did feel a certain satisfaction in explaining how he had expertly switched the pages in Mikimi's note underneath the man's own nose. He glanced over his shoulder at Gevanni, a rare look of pride in his eyes. "Gevanni managed to replicate a perfect duplicate of Teru's note and replace it," he explained, pulling the real Death Note from inside the folds of his own pajamas and showing it to them.

He noticed the unwavering confidence and smugness In Light's honey-brown eyes. _You'll see, Light, _Near sighed in his head. _Not everything is how you expect it to be…_

And so they waited. What felt like an eternity passed, before the door was creaked open just a crack. Near kept his eyes averted, not looking at the man he knew was standing right there with murder in his eyes. He heard the scratching of pen on paper, the frenzied pounding of the man's crazed heart against his ribcage, but Near didn't flinch; thanks to Gevanni, he knew he was perfectly safe.

The man's pen fell silent and all that could be heard in the room were the breaths of the people inside. He felt Halle shift restlessly behind him, heard the gentle _shuff _of Gevanni's sleeve as he pulled the mourning woman to his side, and could smell Rester's familiar aftershave as the man sipped, calm as ever, at his strong coffee.

"To the one outside," Light called, "did you write the names in the notebook?" Near fiddled with the toys that surrounded him, absolutely enraptured as Light just dug himself a deeper grave. Matsuda started at Light's words, staring at the man he'd worked with for so many years with confusion in his eyes.

"Yes, I did," the man outside responded, reverence and love in his voice. Light smiled, invited the man to enter the building, which he did with a crazed, enraptured smile on his once-handsome face. Light had shed every ounce of composure and was grinning, looking absolutely insane, at Near himself, his handsome face twisted up in a rather frightening beam of victory.

And then, Light said it; the one thing Near could never have predicted, the most damning piece of evidence of them all.

"I win, Near." And with that, the fortieth tick of his watch could be heard. Near kept his smile away; that had done it; it was as if Light had held a spear to his own heart and confessed every sin his hands had ever written. Near couldn't have planned it better himself.

Nothing

Happened.

Despite Near's assurance that everybody would be fine, even his own SPK had identical expressions of worry on their faces as they opened their eyes and examined their unharmed bodies, felt their hearts beating away in their chests with no indication that they should have stopped.

Mikimi looked distraught; raving about how he had done _everything Light had told him _and _why wasn't everybody dead? _Light scowled, uncertain and suspicious, throughout the room. "Why won't they die?" Mikimi howled, desperate.

"Gevanni, Rester," Near commanded. "Restrain him."

He watched, with more than a little pride in his heart at the men he had grown to care for stepped forward, Rester grabbing Teru's arms firmly, Gevanni slapping cuffs onto the man's wrists. Near held up the notebook Teru had dropped.

"See for yourselves," he called, pointing to each name on the lines Teru had filled moments before. "The names of myself and my SPK are all correct;" it was a little odd to look at his own name in the Death Note; he was unused to seeing _Nate River _written down; it had always just been Near. "I can only assume the names of _your _men are all correct. And yet, Light Yagami's name _is not in this notebook."_

Light stuttered, obviously in a panic, about how _this was a trap, a setup, it couldn't be him. _Near countered his every argument with calm rationalization, and soon Light was running out of things to say. Finally giving up, Light began to spew the words Near could only imagine he had wanted to speak for many years now. He spoke of how he was God, how the world was better because of him, how every good person in the world was thankful for all of his hard work that nobody else could have performed in his place.

Near let the man speak, and then Light finished with a loud, fanatical laugh and finally, gasping for breath, said the words Near most needed to hear.

"That's right. I am Kira."

_Bingo. _The words L hadn't lived long enough to hear; the words Matt and Mello had died trying to seize. It was over.

Suddenly, Near felt a new presence behind himself, and he knew, somehow without turning around, who it was. Perhaps it was the combined whiffs of cigarette smoke and chocolate bars, perhaps it was the familiar unwavering gaze on his back, or the love he felt radiating from behind him, he was completely aware. _L. Mello. Matt. Here to finish what they started._

"No," the four men spoke in perfect unison, although Near was faintly sure that only he could hear the spoken words of the dead. "Light Yagami, L, Kira. You were never a god. You are only a murderer, and the Death Note is the deadliest weapon known to mankind." Near felt three pairs of hands come to hold him about the shoulders, and he nearly sagged into his coursing emotions; he hadn't known they would be here, but he couldn't force himself to be very surprised that they were.

The three dead men listened as Near explained how his plan had worked, how it wasn't entirely Light's fault he had been caught, but Mikimi's own doing that had set the plan in motion, that without Mello and Takada's death, he could never have been sure. He brought up how he had been able to see Ryuk the whole time (the Shinigami looked startled, but pleased, at this information, offering Near a cheerful wave which the boy returned.) and how there really was no way out of it now.

But neither Near nor his unseen group of Kira-resisters were surprised when Light began fighting just the same. Smacking away the handcuffs, screaming and scrambling around and generally making a fuss. He felt Mello stiffen behind him, letting out a little breath of "_oh, _Hell _no," _when Light, with a hidden scrap of Death Note, tried to scribble down Near's name. All four of them were startled when it was Matsuda who pulled out a gun, shooting Light multiple times but being stopped short by Aizawa before actually killing the young man.

"_Didn't know he had it in him," _Matt muttered, sounding pleased. They watched as Light, shaking and blood-stained from multiple gunshot wounds, clung to the last being he felt he had left.

"Ryuk," Light was begging, "write down their names." Near stiffened a little at this, knowing if the Shinigami chose to kill him, there really was no defense; the same thought must have occurred to the others because several people discharged their firearms at the floating creature, who merely chuckled, stating how human weapons couldn't hurt him. A hand rubbed Near's cottony hair gently, and Near heard L mumble "_It's alright, Near; it's over_."

They watched with bated breath as Ryuk painstakingly wrote several characters down in his own notebook, before settling it back in his pocket with a sigh.

Near turned away, knowing what was going to happen before it did. He resisted the urge to plug his ears as Light screamed and complained loudly, insisting he didn't want to die. The fear in his voice was plain to everybody. Although Near figured that he should be happy, he only felt hollow, tired. _Over. It was finally over._

The screams were eventually silenced, the smell of blood thick in the warehouse from Light's many open wounds, and all could hear the creak as the Shinigami outstretched his wings with a quiet comment of, "Well, Light, it's been fun." They watched as the creature phased through the wall, saw from the window as he took to the sky.

A hand gripped his face, and Near looked to see the shimmering image of Mello glaring at him.

"You did good," was all the man said, before releasing Near's chin. A hand wrapped around his shoulder to give him a half-hug; it was Matt, smiling. "_We _did good," he corrected, his eyes full of pride. But it was L who knelt in front of Near, his hands on the boy's shoulders.

"You're L now," the man told the eighteen-year-old. "We're proud of you. Good luck."

Both L and Matt then turned to Mello. "If you would, Mello," L requested softly, "greet Light in the Shinigami realm. There is much to say to him." Mello bit his lip, looking pained, but nodded resolutely.

"I'll come back for you!" Matt insisted to the blonde, fierce determination in his tone. "I _will _find a way; we will be together." And again, Mello nodded, a rare smile on his scarred face.

He watched as the three men walked in a row, phasing through the wall as Ryuk had done; he felt the loss of their presence instantly, though none of the other's in the room seemed to.

L was right; after seven years of hard work and many, many sacrifices, this chapter in their lives was over.

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_1/28/2011_

The hooded woman stood among many, some family, some friends, mostly strangers, clutching her candle in her small hands. Her hood was pushed back by the chilly winter breeze as she protected the flickering flame of her candle with a hand, and her very long black hair flickered in the breeze, her lovely brown eyes reflecting the candle flames of thousands.

She was just another woman in a sea of people, here to mourn the loss of Kira. Although many insisted he was a monster, to her, he was a hero; he had saved her from certain death seven years ago from a man holding her captive in a building. He had affected the lives of many, for better or for worse, and she felt it was a day to remember him, if not exactly mourn.

Looking up at the moon in the night sky with wonder in her eyes, she smiled, just a tiny bit. The world would keep on turning, night would follow day, and no matter what, everything would always change. It was just the way life was.

"Thank you," she whispered, her words catching on the breeze and flowing around her. She raised her candle, planning to whisper _to Kira, _but the words changed coming out of her lips. "To life," she finally spoke.

_Fin_

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_DBL here! Wow; it's finally over! It feels so surreal; thank you, everybody who's been commenting and encouraging me to keep writing this; it feels like I got a lot accomplished! I am proud of this story, and very grateful to everybody who's read it and commented; you help me out so much! *hugs*_

_As for the fanart I promised yesterday, it wasn't finished in time; I drew the pictures but haven't had time to color them in. I will definitely add a link in this story as soon as it's finished, though, in case anybody's interested._

_Thank you, and have a wonderful life!_


	17. Fanart

Ok guys; I finished and posted that fanart I promised! Here is a link to it:

http: / mizcactus . deviantart . com / art / We-re – still – with – you – Near – 251184092

Just copy the link, delete the spaces (I had to put in spaces or FF wouldn't let me post a link) and it should take you to the picture!

If you're having troubles seeing it, let me know and we'll work something else out.


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